At a liquid time flowing between two visions,
Before we imprisoned our breaths inside cages of a calendar,
Before bird feathers fell down into inkwells,
Before we covered our dead with an elegy and a confusion written on papyrus leaves and skin of wild deer,
Before putting our last touch on inscriptions over cave walls and arms tanned by light,
She’d been undressing, thread after thread, petal by petal, leaf after leaf.
She could have fancied as she wished;
She could have climbed on a honeyed illusion, or on trees running towards serial suns,
She could have plucked gods from her sky, planted other gods at her garden’s ceiling, and asked for a glass window through which she could have taken a look at tempests.
She could have drunk her coffee metaphors, with cups of wind.
She could have loosened her hair like coal-black rain over her face, flowing with virgin minerals, and weaved it into braids to be called rivers.
She could have taken, for a slight sleep, a moon infected with silver fear and transparency, as her light nightdress.
She could have planted her cheeks with windflowers each time she was bashful of God’s voice streaming in her furrows, and could have filled her mirror with seasons’ tempers.
Nobody knows her name.
But, here she is, still undressing, leaf by leaf, tree by tree, a mountain by mountain, relaxing at her fields over a pile of wheat never touched before.
Then, when autumn intensifies, comes her lover, riding on a black cloud, so chaos wakes up once again, and rhythm of the ever first and last rain, conquests her.