I am fascinated by the mystery of lives
That unfold along the chessboard
Of days and streets, faded photos
Memory of twenty years or one evening. 
And I am involved in the eternal dripping
And time over the face of a passer-by
And asking me if he appears in his features. 
The insult of a death or a lover
The mysterious network of relationships
Which binds with its evanescent threads
The eternal carousel of reasons or wrongs
The scaly toll of moments
The world seen with asphalted eyes
Chasing the ballet of the hours
We who know where we were born
But we will never know where we die
I like to rummage through memories
Of other people, winters or springs. 
To lose or find connections
In the apparent chaos of a second-hand dealer. 
Paintings that someone has been posing for
A telescope that has looked at a point. 
A globe, two bijou, a rose. 
Junk once beautiful and now worn
Think who may have used them. 
Seeking an answer to the charade
Why they were abandoned. 
Like a dog left on the road. 
Objects that someone has perhaps loved. 
Now they lie there, without a master. 

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