The scientists jumped to the conclusion: there is no human soul out there
Only a fiction embracing a hill or a cottage
A broken wave
A slice of moon drawn in chalk on the asphalt
A shadow inventing other shadows
The memory of the unlived happiness
The rotten taste of the break offs

We can talk about gravitation and death
These things exist for real
alike numberless biological and geological species
theorems, molecules, bacteria and odd numbers
but such a thing as a soul does not exist.

My beautiful picture

Yet, in spite of the scientific expertise
Only this improbable soul can make the difference between a stone and a mountain
between a bird and a flying machine
Only this being that doesn’t exist but can laugh
knows that rain is the other name of solitude
Only this being might be able to prove
The existence of birds
The existence of waters
The existence of the moon
The existence of the damned
The existence of springtime

Only this nothing
Endures everything
How could something inexistent possibly feel the pain?



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