ACOUPHÈNE

The vocation is a trans-inurban Crusade
and, you, where you're going, if you don't even have a banana,
the secret of success is to grit your teeth
by pulling Stardust.

You can't hear the voices of the world
in a field disturbed by background noise,
ending up, like a kulak, between sickle and anvil
virtual like Macondo in One Hundred Years of Solitude.

Journeying, transhumant, feeling inadequate,
scouring the underworld like a bisulphurous devil,
on the burning coals of the current sociodrama
conscious of being a moth and not a flame.

Maybe in the end you'll come up with a value, God, an idea,
Cervantes in the forest between Chisciotte and Dulcinea,
to tear you from an existence taciturn
so that you can feel joy in the urn.