And here, the remains of a field

A path withstands the onslaught of ferns
Mushrooms grow
on contorted limbs of a felled rônier palm
Handles of pruning hooks

I want only to be a worn-down stone
on the ruins of time,

I’ll go plant the tree of my grief
in the wetlands
of silence close to her grave

I’ll live in lantana
shrubs

sadness passes
and madness passes

Fast fella, cough it up, five cents more please.
Faster, this crap’ll kill you, like anything else

It is half life
There is honey in your harmony

Imagine, the grace of these children! 
We are in the sun. What elapses 
is history. Do you ever move? 

Far out! You are really not a bad poet!

I am the one
who skulks in the library

He is very sorrowed that all this happened.
He works for his brothers.