Added by Gustavo Cordoba on November 28, 2018 at 9:56pm — No Comments
I do not know when we were mud in your hands,
raw mixture of veins and tendons,
within the simple perfection of a spiral.
In Us there is no memory of dust,
and despite the fingers that strike upon us,
there is a tremor that shines in our temples
that sings to us the defeat of death.
And I know that you are there, that you wait for us:
How could we…
Added by Gustavo Cordoba on November 26, 2018 at 6:05pm — No Comments