The mountain is high,
the city sleeps under your feet
curled up from the cold.
The mist comes down from the top,
sounds surround her
of the bronze of the old dome
greenish, above, the moon,
pale, sometimes sheltered
by passing clouds that travel
to the blind west
Now I walk the streets
between sighs of windows
open and balanced shadows
on the white walls.
vertical shadows spread
in the streets, tomorrow they will return
to be erect buildings.
dreams of memory
they run to the lake, get on boats
with midnight itinerary
blinking eye lanterns
they say goodbye.
She had thought not to write about
Dreams.
But I wake up in a faraway place
embracing another sky,
mixed with other fragrances
visualizing other dreams
and anchored in the lips of another
port.