A house is not sanity to straighten out the insane

(Work made from the recycling of 4 Cuban quilts of domestic use.)

As I nip dementia in the bud
someone flees
and the house rebuilds the green among the ailment.
Pruning is the new inheritance.
Germinate a mountain.
Prune the bitter
and the spider in the heart of men,
but remember the pruned names
as a feat.
When pruning the edge is double
and even a seed grows when it pretends to suffer,
knows that the tree is not noble for bearing fruit,
even if it redoubles its shadow on the quadrant.
If the head is a transplant
the tree can prune the man
without gravitating into a triumphant sprout.
The room is closed.
The tribe resists the dust.
We have been fear's smock to the fracture.
A house is not sanity to straighten the unhealthy.
The house is only a hand to forget the world.
The house is the deepest bandage of humans.
What is the house if I have lived in the ardor of its footprint?
The house is not a star.
The house is not the acquired.
Nor is it the known
nor the gestural map I have
nor the wall I hold in the middle of the chromosome.
The house is only the axiom of ignoring where I come from.