My fingers' work helps you to link on your stitches.
by Michel Galiana
A robe of time clothed me to the hips already.
Your funeral is held each time the sun rises.
When the sun sets I doubt whether morning will be.
I thought the threads you spun were some spider's alike
Which mimic a rampart but vanish in the air.
But if my delusion from my fingers takes flight,
My dreams have forged for me a solid iron jail.