Maybe I do not hear the voices
that turn me away
more and more quickly
from the latent memory
of those suffered days
made of blood and wind,
dried out,
made of blood and wind.
I will destroy the figures,
every time I saw
to recreate them better,
to recreate them again
inside me.
Everything
wait to go,
or return to its place
and I could still be there
caressing the winter
in a body of water,
I could still be,
caressing the winter
in a body of water,
I could still be ...
I could still be ...
I could still be there.