This ancient domestic ritual
of covering the bread well,
of seeing there is a tablecloth for the table
and that it doesn't lack salt,
my hands in such assiduous escape
without wanting nor thinking
it's already almost an irremediable defect
that I can't succeed in curing.

In the same way, I carry in my syllables
that someone sometime will write,
here, in my lukewarm fingertips
quick to caress
or to extend in a resounding slap in the face
that I can't manage to restrain.

In whatever manner, one lives jailed
who doesn't wish to escape.