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At night, on the roads
of drought, stone and dust,
the old car stammers.
No-one passes this way.
The ground is uninhabited
save with asperity enkindled
by vertiginous lamps:
it’s the night of nettles,
of vegetables armed
like caymans, with knives:
you see the teeth of the wire
around the fields,
the cacti of hostile stature
like thorny obelisks,
the dry night, and in the darkness
full of dusty stars
the black nest of dawn
preparing stintless
the yellow horizons.
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