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Do you know,
how good it is where we are not?
Behind your back,
forever.
Do you know that sandy landscape, the kind you see between panes of glass?
Behind your back,
in a murky mirror,
in melting water.
The day before yesterday.
Blue rows
of unconscious faces,
unidentified bodies.
They return, standing silently, observing.
Termites devour tables, bodies,
structures, buildings,
until they collapse.
doors, walls, bodies,
one of these days.
One of these days,
they return,
always,
looking through you and remaining silent.
There is no time to act, to hide,
to scream.
They are already here.
There, behind the mirrors, they are also silent.
They see, or they don't see.
Immobile, large,
everywhere, all around.
Even if you are sleeping,
especially if you are sleeping.
They stand silently.
They are already here.
Along every road,
in the pre-dawn forests,
at night, at night,
they fly silently over the frozen ground,
with silver faces,
never sleeping,
not touching the ground with their frosty heels,
not crushing the grass,
not disturbing the water.
They are already here.
Wherever you are.
Termites devour until everything collapses,
and they observe.