My pupil is losing its multitude,
the one that lets me see inside and outside.
I can only see the black vertices of the branches,
although I reach small shades
of the mist of the invisible of the being that sighs.
But yes, I arrive, I see and I manage to see,
the essence of the roses,
already cracked, that rustle at dusk,
sound with voices that are inside one,
where my spirit waits to see the opportune light.

In third and fourth place in this chorus,
come two presences, united and alien,
lived in a paradox, in the now and in gold,
in any time and space, also in what slows down.
The unpublished echo and the shadow of blood do not let them touch each other.
They not as individuals, but as models,
come by the hand of a black and green veil,
transcending the wind and the atoms that die,
transporting themselves in the words that are lost.

They all want with strength the mute vertexes,
that creak and are silent, that is their longing,
therein lies the dilemma of naked whispers,
for an uncertain sky and a land in mourning.

Among moors like those of Juan Preciado,
in a false truth, a sincere lie,
where mixed dreams are blessed.

All merge in the dancing ribbon,
that dances in the wind, a wandering loop,
with no morphemes or syntax to present,
only eyes that burn and a fire to sing,
an idea without preaching or reciting.
There everything blurs, evaporates,
in the folds of the dry leaves,
and their song that never implores.

Now I am here, with ardor that blinds my sight,
with no moors, no vertices to divert my track.