In front the mountains emerge like a fine gauze
that curves over the shadows. The snow of the
cordillera phosphoresces lightly, like a gauze
that floats. Above, the infinite stars and the black
sky. Words are tenuous, the stars are tenuous.
I heard an unending field of white daisies. They
bend in the wind. I hear the moaning of the thin
stalks as they bend. It’s a grating, high-pitched
sound. When the wind stops the silence comes
Bruno. Only a white line that falls and rises up
again. Above the line everything is black and
under it too. First there’s the beach, I know, then
the sea up to the horizon and then the sky. The
night is a closed black box, underneath it the line
of surf sounds and is white.
Bruno was my friend.