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The solitude of that painted leaf is the memory of doubt, fluttering in the wind with its garment of swords.

We are confused shadows living on the sides, under the falling rain, and nobody to talk about those signs of war, while I remain sitting.

Under paper roofs I see soles pass by, safe knees with fast legs and few details, a few glances in the cold.

A kind glance would warm me, in the silent pain enveloping the cardboard, those partial refuges that were beds of dreams, and are now just torpor.

My ageing dreams no longer dream, and other peoples' steps mark my time: the seconds, the minutes, my days and the dark lady who brings a truce.

As the night falls on the painted leaf, the sick memory takes little steps, but I don't remember my name, if for a time nobody reads it and calls to me.