I ‘m not aspiring to the eternity,
but the fact of the matter is that I reprimand the wind
at the opening of the poem.
I roster as God does in the poets’ funeral.
I lie down on the brink of the tree which embraces
Thus, I embroider my face on my shoulder and,
scatter climates for nostalgia.
In order to suckle the whims from a bundle of speech,
so, would the milk cry from the breast of the tale.
A dream lost on the sly with peeps star,
I have no face to wet my confusion in a sky
for a new happiness.
I will seclude myself in the bottom of the absence
scratch its sumptuous night.
Threatening the silence with the resignation of the emptiness ;
and collect gravel to flirt the flutes’ ache.