I lower saints of my prayer
and I kneel in front of your face
and in that land burns with my prayer,
you are tied to a column of thirst
riddled for no reason and no faith,
and that strange truth and that murky version
that today disappears, that today disappears.
This my flower is born from the mud
and when it touches the air it burns
and it falls dry and rolls at your feet
this consciousness is so illogical I know
that there I drown I find myself
and I am born again,
a portrait of you, a landscape a flower,
these are days of fever.
While you watch crystals bursting at me
sunken so far away and more fleeting
I return to your roots

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