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Wheels

Any movement kills something
It kills the place that is abandoned,
the gesture, the unrepeatable position,
some anonymous organism,
a sign, a glance.
a love that returned,
a presence or its contrary,
the life always of someone else,
one´s own life without others.

And being here is moving,
being here is killing something.
Even the dead move,
even the dead kill.
Here the air smells of crime.

But the odor comes from farther away.
And even the odor moves.

(Roberto Juarroz - 'tenth.66')

 

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