Through the pictures of saints hung on the wall

my eyeballs drag an ay! of nightfall;

and in a fever shudder, arms crossed,

my being receives a nebulous visit from Nonbeing.

A crying fly on the tired furniture

wants to spill I do not know what ghastly legend:

an illusion of Orients that flee assaulted;

a blue nest of skylarks that die while being born.

An old armchair holds my father.

Like Our Lady of Sorrows my mother comes and goes.

Seeing them I feel something that does not want to go away.

Because before the wafer, host made of Science,

there is the Host, wafer made of Providence.

And the visit is born, it helps me to live right …