We do not know the moment when the rose intervenes in life to make it possible, and when I say I am tired, I mean the tremor of the rose from your eyes. I want your voice to land on my skin, place its idea and then move away. I treat forgetfulness in this way, as if the egg of your heart hatches on my skin, granting me safety.
All my suspicion was that the voice was a game, I would eventually get bored of it, but my fingers pushed your voice into all the cracks, and I remained outside, without knowledge, without experiences, I remember how the stone of silence hurt me from you, how I hid in the first crack, and did not pay attention to the crying hanging behind the door.
Without a clear place, I swing with my loneliness, my body heavy, like the taste of salt, I call out to you: With your small hand this suffering stops, and the fold that sadness placed on my door unfolds, and it passed.
I stand here alone, like one who moved the swing and at first believed it would fly, and like one who sent his heart behind his passion, thinking it would circle his house and return!.