There are so many who would wish to keep silent,
but they live always being asked
about everything, by a voice
that is neither in them nor outside,
and they cannot help answering
in a language they do not understand
with words they do not understand.
If they close the window, the air
becomes unbreathable.
If they leave it open, in come
the murmurs and the panting
until they tear away their peace.
Everywhere their silence
is a capitulation they feel
as shameful.
Everywhere their voice is drowned
in the indefinite cooing of the streets,
and yet this consoles them —
as if by being out there, in the air
uttered and dissolved in the distance,
they might cease to be here,
in their heavy daily fast.

Hypotheses, p. 40