I thank the trees because in summer, when the sun is contemptuous and calls every glance to itself, they spread their arms wide and give me silence and to him an insatiable tangle of cackles.
I thank the stones crushed by millions of steps: they never made me feel the futility of my walking.
I thank the night, sweet raven-haired lady: in her arms, white with white passion, she let the memories fade away and let weariness forget being an excruciating torment.
I thank the clouds, which attracted my gaze in the sinuous coils of their dances.
I give thanks for the futility of appearing, denigrated, beaten to death dozens and dozens of times: its will, unstoppable, was benign, like the song of the mother who will never end her son’s sorrows.
I thank anger because it made me wake up: is not Judas the holiest of the saints?
I do not thank the silence built piece by piece, fishing here and there in the boxes of indifference and hypocrisy.
I thank those who applauded from the back of the hall: the front row, a place of sacred figures, was for me only a jumble of indistinct voices, scratching on glass, vulgar banality. You’re welcome.
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