The memory of leaves heals me, but first I had to detonate the emptiness in my mother's gaze. Today this me summons all dreams for a clinical examination. Life must move forward to the confrontation of  horizontal and vertical truths: the tenderness of growing wheat, the serenade of aging. The innocence of my hands denounces its longevity. I split my days in two: countable and uncountable or dreaming and nondreaming. I suffer this continuous birth:  words invent me like an age without history. It must be said though: a historical smoke comes out of them. On a day like this beauty is tough, I speak with a seemingly exiled tongue. No return for dreams disguised in blind storcks.
When I look around I see all the way to New York or Cape Town how this world is oppressed by an aboundand impatience to find the point of no return for the sea level. I see the future where I never existed. Our own shadows crush us but we blame it on the sun's karma. I blame everything on love's echo.