DAY OF THE ARROW THAT GOES THROUGH THE TREE-TOPS
You, Ihilla, who knows how to thread fire between your fingernails and has mixed the idea of wiping out the web of the cobweb with colors, whisper with us the growl of ancient beasts returning, for you must know that the hammerhead shark and the white dogfish hold the inexistence of the mother country in our hearts.
Perhaps you know that the flip-flopping of the past, the presence of these mouths that chewed laughter between milk teeth, is hopeless? Coarse beauty and the despair of beasts will come together in times to come, eat all the leftovers with times past .
You, Ihilla, who have seen the gods dressing us with time, know that a light wind makes us eager to please.
Our words, goddess, will be written in the lintel of the bastions, between the testicles of the tiger, in that mixture of humidity and fire that the minor dreams of ants squandering the wind arrive at.
Be glad, Ihilla: in the immensity of rottenness a single stone curlew will trample those who feign to extol themselves.