I was born Dionisio Palacios
in the poverty
of my hands
I wished I had
the sky heavy with light
as a noon of sweet fruit
so I could taste the earth

I lived in Rua Moderna
between two worlds
that made me feel
like a schism
separating the two

I worked with letters
languages whose words
could evoke
daybreaks in my
blinding madness

I was sentenced to death
and hanged
for the murder of an ideal
an abstract sin
the abomination of believing
that nothing exists

   but the whisper of the stars. . .