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Below Zero
In the thoughts of the suicide there is an emptiness
that can only be filled at temperatures below zero.
The thoughts of the suicide are not swift
nor foggy: they are merely cold.
The mind is not blank: it is frozen.
There appears, like a razor's edge, a sensation of
tranquility that seems never-ending.
With the brain turned into an iceberg, nothing
is remembered. Neither the most loved flesh, nor the names
of the children, nor the coal fires of poetry.
The suicide is the living image of solitude.
No one journeys to that island of ice, crossed
by a bullet from pole to pole.
Even in the tropics, when someone commits suicide
it begins, sadly, to snow.
that can only be filled at temperatures below zero.
The thoughts of the suicide are not swift
nor foggy: they are merely cold.
The mind is not blank: it is frozen.
There appears, like a razor's edge, a sensation of
tranquility that seems never-ending.
With the brain turned into an iceberg, nothing
is remembered. Neither the most loved flesh, nor the names
of the children, nor the coal fires of poetry.
The suicide is the living image of solitude.
No one journeys to that island of ice, crossed
by a bullet from pole to pole.
Even in the tropics, when someone commits suicide
it begins, sadly, to snow.








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