The sound of rain.
I can associate everything with the sound of the rain. I think I've always known this, but there is a precise moment in which you realize what you are not, and perhaps later, as a glass cut, what you are. And then you learn to want slowly, because the single breath can appear challenging.
And the voices, the voices ... Those that follow you when you are alone, those that amputate you and undress you and brand you while you keep silent.
The sound of the wind.
I can still pray with the sound of the wind. Praying for an identity, for the recognition of a mirror, praying not to be a cross.
And my father, having defeated his monsters, looks at me with love even if he cries looking at the stars.
The sound of the sea.
I can find the sound of the sea inside me, and sometimes it is stormy that hooks my stomach, and I look at myself and I don't find myself, I look at myself and I don't see myself. It is the indignation of wonder ... and I would be ready to amaze myself every day if only it weren't a blade.
The sound of the sky.
I can hear the sound of the sky inside me and then I know where the waves are coming from, I listen to the cat's gaze and count the finished lines in which the poem melts. Your poem.
And when you smell a hug and in the width of your lips I find myself, your eyes become almost heaven.
My Quasicielo.
The sound of rain.
I can associate everything with the sound of the rain. I think I've always known this, but there is a precise moment in which you realize what you are not, and perhaps later, as a glass cut, what you are. And then you learn to want slowly, because the single breath can appear challenging.
And the voices, the voices ... Those that follow you when you are alone, those that amputate you and undress you and brand you while you keep silent.
The sound of the wind.
I can still pray with the sound of the wind. Praying for an identity, for the recognition of a mirror, praying not to be a cross.
And my father, having defeated his monsters, looks at me with love even if he cries looking at the stars.
The sound of the sea.
I can find the sound of the sea inside me, and sometimes it is stormy that hooks my stomach, and I look at myself and I don't find myself, I look at myself and I don't see myself. It is the indignation of wonder ... and I would be ready to amaze myself every day if only it weren't a blade.
The sound of the sky.
I can hear the sound of the sky inside me and then I know where the waves are coming from, I listen to the cat's gaze and count the finished lines in which the poem melts. Your poem.
And when you smell a hug and in the width of your lips I find myself, your eyes become almost heaven.
My Quasicielo.