There is a dragon on the palm tree in my house.
I don't really know if he was already there when we arrived,
or if he grew up one day after butterflies rained,
Or if he came flying with mother dragon and fell,
or if he is now waiting for his friends to return.
All I know is that he sings every night
and clothe himself with thorny leaves,
that when he wants to wrap up more
sometimes he doesn't know where the sheet ends
and where your skin.
And she sings, because the fire that comes out of her mouth when she yawns
it's enough to burn the ants
and he is sad because nobody gets to see him.

I don't know how old he is
I don't even know if his age is counted in years,
but he seems to be singing
since it all started:
when the trees grew in the courtyards
and turned the worlds into indestructible towers.