The gang of killers, who had surrounded his house,
shivered in rain that since early evening
had prepared to witness his death.
The night was somber,
like a young man forced to rush off to the harbor
leaving behind beautiful moments, full of memories.
He was calm, wanting only peace,
when facing the final moments of destruction.
He was dressed in white, with his hair combed neatly
and his face immaculate. Whistling and singing occasionally,
he even had the time to finish the last of the coffee
in his purple cup.
“Welcome. I’ve already prepared everything
you came here to seize and destroy:
words, voices, or whatever it is you’re afraid of,
but which I don’t actually possess.”
He stood in the doorway,
staring at the killers’ faces, one by one.
They trembled and looked around hesitantly.
“Excuse us, we’re rather nervous.
You’re braver, it turns out, than we expected.
We can see words forming a bold line
around your eyes.”
“Thanks, you can still make jokes
and pretend to humor me.
Quick, do your job, or your words
will come back to haunt you.”
“All right, then, permit us to confiscate the words
that you’ve prepared so willingly.
We’ll do our best to annihilate them.”
“No problem, they’re only words.
I have something more awesome than words.”
Speechless, the pack of killers marched home,
their frightful shapes, their savage faces,
swallowed by the night and the rain.
Meanwhile, on hundreds of deserted and lonely magazine
pages, words moved cheerfully about, as in a quiet-filled
garden, because, as he had written in red ink:
“Words are like butterflies competing for flowers,
or flowers competing for color,
or color competing for light,
or light competing for the heavens,
or the heavens competing for me.”
He slept soundly then, when outside
another pack of killers surrounded his house.