A terrible beast slides on everything:
as terrible as saying: "I remain"
about the tribe that can cross on a razor blade
taking its time,
slowly pulling its strength
on the minute, sharp abyss
which detaches one side from the other.
And I can't see the smile of this almost thing
after its exploit that I cannot imitate,
I myself, a fragile substance that can only smash it,
the beast, like almost everything, a strong gelatin
determined to go on without my existing.
To me, certainty is the shiny road of its nape.