My mouth excretes flowers on top of my mother's grave,
im still cold;
waiting for the vision of Carnero.

There are some hidden palaces
blooming their sa(n)dness
at the polluted delta
that caresses my soul.

And im letting go
the blue balloon
of your
surface.

Tomorrow at night
we will have our last dinner
with the poison spilling from red violent lips
to sacred concerto stunning fingers.