Cold,
you give me a tired image
and you don't discover the aromas
to fallen autumn leaves.
They last on the skin that resists.
Cold,
It is the fear of another aroma.
Strange and without true space.
What unheard of fear,
the one who draws gray reflections,
and my life strums.

It's blue and scented Saturday
the breeze that comes from fragile time.
Anchored in the memory a silence,
with shorts and uncertain color.
No tired eyes.
With the voices that still sail under the sun,
and the eternal moons.
All delayed in the prelude to the fragile sunset.
And the little laughs.
And the faces that poke around behind the windows.

I do not know.
I find it hard to understand
this dream that rises without air,
without evident force,
and he falls bleeding like a bird without wings.
I don't dream what I want.
I dream this reality that walks barefoot,
Hastening the pace like a suicide
I imagine, or dream,
like a pregnancy made spirit
Or am I a secret that dreams of itself?