It is not because of the town. It is not because of the hour. It is not because of this little here and now.
Someone trapped it hanging on the wall, someone trapped it hanging from a tree.
It has nothing to do with the time of the year, the gifts, the dust. Walking through the deserted streets of Faro won't add anything new to an autobiography crowded with cyclopes. The beggar,
she sits in front of the shop where Helena Diaz used to work, opens a hollow hand. Shadows follow.
From the many people she was the only one I had to meet, waving the sugar and its little track
as an aristocrate would have done it, or Jeanne, dressed for a funeral under the gloomy green of a jacaranda.