Translated by Geoffrey Brock
There were no alarms, no sentries: how could there have been? The doors were even standing open, and if we could do it again we wouldn't have it any other way. Defenseless—isn't that better? Unarmed?

Now we follow these strangers, who lead us along without loving us, without curiosity or comprehension, merely sufficiently convinced of our value, and perhaps intent on profiting from us. We will be passed from hand to hand in the markets of the great prairie. We will grow ever quieter, ever more condemned to wrap ourselves in the blind solitude of objects.   

Beneath the touch of countless rags, we will let the slightest traces of our origin be erased.

More Poems by Fabio Pusterla