From all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From this bench I go away, from my pants,from my great situation, from my actions,from my number split side to side,from all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From the Champs Elysées or as the strangealley of the Moon makes a turn,my death goes away, my cradle leaves,and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose,my human resemblance turns aroundand dispatches its shadows one by one.
And I move away from everything, since everythingremains to create my alibi:my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mudand even the bend in the elbowof my own buttoned shirt.
