The smell of damp earth takes over the garden and brings other storms. Other summers in which everything could be lost under water, until the time that promises stopped being. Who will free us from what wets and returns?

There is always a thunder that snatches
the question line in the middle of the ship.
The refuge turns hillside, discomfort, almost a challenge
facing the night and the saga of crickets,
fireflies, kelp, nameless bugs.
A sequence of lime trees and poplars to serve
to the breeze that announces our brief
waiting for songs without voices,
of melodies in sustained silence.

The ray of darkness does not always overshadow,
sometimes dazzles in front of the catechism of idiots,
the comfort of those who know the steps
of each dance, of each tour without moons.
In the middle of the tree grows a secret,
also the heart of the body that we are about to read.

Writing comes and goes. It wets us and leaves us in the silence that writes us. A silence more here than the trees and the raindrops. A silence that puts out every sound in the world.