One more well inside a cave.
At other times it was easy for us to draw up idols and
to please some friends who were still loyal to us.
Now the ropes are broken; only the grooves on the
remind us of our past happiness
the fingers on the well’s lip, as the poet put it.
The fingers feel the coolness of the stone, a little
that the body’s heat prevails over it
and the cave gambles its soul and loses it
every moment, filled by silence, without a drop of water.