Is this heaven?
I open the windows in search of angels
I blow the steam curtain
(I want to see)
Will my old man and his mustache be here,
my mother and her friends, Aunt Palmira or grandfather?
I search in vain through this cloud that
delicately
has perched in my neighborhood, on my block
like a fine spider web, a tulle
(I want to see)
it's a white silence
there are no angels, there is no neighborhood, there are no neighbors
no returns beloved
the clothes are soaked with its fine drops
my eyes cling to the only true
the thermos, the mate
the meow of the cat on the balcony
But... I'm going to fly, the fall doesn't matter.
I've been on solid ground for a long time.
I prefer to fly through the clouds,
empty of essence,
and go through nothing.
I prefer to soak myself in a sea of ​​humid sadness, submerge myself in the dark depths, and let my eyes contemplate Atlantis, witness of those who defied the Gods.
I prefer to bury myself in the blanket of lava, in stone to be eternal.
I promise to smile even if the tongue of the earth burns my skin, if that's how I immortalize the joy I felt when I met you.