I have an idiot inside me, who weeps,
who weeps and does not know,
who looks only at the light,
the light that does not know.

I have the child, the foolish child,
as if standing in God,
a god who knows nothing
but loving and weeping —
weeping through the nights
for the children,
for the children with a sweet core,
soft to the touch, like the night.

I have an idiot standing in a plaza,
looking, and letting herself be looked at,
letting herself be violated
by the avalanche of others' gazes —
weeping, fragile,
weeping for the light.

I have a child alone among many,
a beaten dog beneath the hail,
beneath the rain,
beneath the terror of a rain
that weeps and weeps, today, for everyone,
while the sun hides itself
to let the killing happen.

And into everyone's night
comes the murderous child,
to weep for no one knows why,
for not knowing how, knowing nothing now,
except how to kill, under the whole rain,
with a lost face and demented hair,
hungry, thirsty, full of longing
for air, for blowing balloons
the way it used to be,
the way life was —

one day, before,
there in the bedroom of our parents,
we lost the light.