I, abraham

the river narrows into a           sombre still pool

in the black cave of
ancient drawings,
unforgettable horrors,
world-ends cast in rock,
and the stale air of doom
-- why do you do this?, she asks --
to be sightless and
hide from these weathers:
I am more familiar
with desolation and
a ghost as vast as history.
what must I sacrifice
so I may roam the world again?

Photo Historas de Cronopios