The bottom of things is neither life nor death.

The bottom of things is neither life nor death.
My proof is
the air that goes barefoot in the birds,
a roof of absences that make room for the silence,
and this look of mine that turns around at the bottom
as everything turns around at the end.

And my further proof is
my childhood that was bread before wheat,
my childhood that knew
that there were smokes that descend,
voices that nobody uses for talking,
roles in which a man does not move.

The bottom of things is neither life nor death.
The bottom is something else
that sometimes comes out on top.