The night has music engraved in her look
A stack of plates welcomes the storms
I caress the tablecloth with my knife
In-between piles of dried figs, under the rain
Night has honey pouring from her eyelids
A lonely look, mahogany pupils
Don’tyou hear?
The blowgun of their voices
Shot the eagle that was taking a plunge in the depth of my heart
There is a cemetery, a jogger, birds wings sounds
Fingers of children that capture the black dots of these clouds
To paint faces on whitish walls
And while the morning undress the dark beach
They spit their laughter onto the blue skies
Nightshades 