Where I used to dwell
in my autumn, with my rags
and I say dwelled
because I felt alive
inside there as never before.

Where I used to inhabit
tremulous, subtle
and I was recognized
by my sinews
and my veins
and by the air
that traveled in and out
your lungs.

There, down in your bloodstream
and within your thoughts
that host now
another guest,
is there not left a remnant of sorrow?
not even some ashes?

written in jail in Cuba in the summer of 2003