My mother died in London

My mother died in London,
though she had her death in Salvador.
In me, she died in London. And I,
alone, hidden in a distant room,
looking in the mirror, saw grief
spreading its roots on my face,
now older. My longing stretched into the void,
like a fixed ray that has crossed its path,
carving the nothing, the end of all.

Those who bury dig in themselves their cave,
a hollow where they hide when walking the streets,
unrecognised by the unfamiliar stare
of foreigners in their own land. It was
December. In me all was falling,
as I made my way in haste, already travelling home.
In me alone night fell
on a day that had broken without sun.