futility of continuing the march without baggage, without locks in the throat, looking at the sharpness of the mountain behind silence.
Sol at the confluence of roads, there is a decapitated rooster under the stone cross.
My voice migrates with bones, the messenger of patience overlooking the suburb of my eyelashes, warm words go beyond the expected engineering perfect.
I left the pain of so many months in a cupboard under the linen, I folded maps of grief, I have a tattoo of his silhouette on the thighs, I stick a tape of thorns on the cuff of veins.
My voice crosses, the banks claim, hinders the leopards that bypass the trap slowly sliding down the hollow of the shadow of the fig tree.
Talking not lead us to disaster, or other, but speak, write a poem sideways and nothing happens do you?
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