On the branches of silence
a red finch rests,
and the wind, on tiptoe,
passes by desire,
its heart brimming
with caressing fingers.
And silence,
the sea stretched
between the shores of seconds.
Bubbles swell
in the hollowness of dreamed dimensions.
Vines of distance
fill themselves
with the barrels of voluptuous grapes,
sweet,
overflowing with flavour,
with the appetite of colour,
with the thirst to live,
with the long inhalation
of the body’s longing.
Along the curling tendril of a vine
that endlessly
stitches, intoxication, and time
with red thread,
embroidering the earth
onto the golden ground of the sky.
And from the tangled desire
clinging to the walls
of these brick-like moments,
a glaze of dew gathers
in the space
between us
and silence.
