An eagle in a vertical dive is ready to travel to devour my guts, I know it, the pain of scarring entire nights to reopen my flesh like a swooping knife. Oh what endless nights in which the air acted like salt that stings all the shores of a limitless ocean. Not even the ice mitigates the gaps that my stone bed prevents from closing. I know that I am under the surveillance of that bird that lives in the heavens, that through a clearing sheds its gaze on the bleeding being that I am today. Always on the lookout, I look back and fight to look at the sun head-on, and thus blind that dark silhouette with light. I am the grain that the bird seeks to devour to remain graceful. I am the bone wheel of the distaff. I am the relentless fight against the balance, resistance of the abysmal weight of the firmament.
