The peaceful seed
locked in the intimate orb of herself,
to stretch his green tongue he needs
do violence to herself
lacerate at a point
to break, to open some side.
That way try for the first time
the moist blood of the earth that surrounds it.
She discovers, the innocent, that it was only because
His strenght
that the old subterranean element gave way
for her to give.
Then she stretches out another silent tentacle looking for the sun the air the shape of the star,
then she breaks the greasy surface of
the earth and with a puff
the landscape is drunk, the rain.
Then she opens her mouth, petals teeth,
the flower is born
then comes the bee
to force the dust that
makes life possible.

We never get tired of life
we get tired of death,
of the death of love
of the death of friendship
of death that kills what we love
of the death of ideas and reason
of the untimely death of trust.
Life does not tire us
it is death that tires us
with her infinite faces,
and his sarcasm
and her deep, silent breathing.
We get tired daily of death,
never of life