Sunset messes with children's heads, scattering them in the field with dreamy butterflies, so the trees wear their sleepy hats. Stop, stop, o feet; o dead spells, the soul of man cannot live without boys playing in the mud. Don't you see that things still drag me with their looks, a faraway tent, and a fighter who is proud of himself? Yes, I am the only one who knows the meaning of war, because I speak about it honestly.
The storm changes the face of the water, and so does the war. It makes the mountainous heart an eternal frown for passers-by, leaving the valleys with nothing but shattered chests and echoes. War is a dark color for dawn, and a finger steals the sanctity of tears. It is a dark story whose secrets are deposited only on every dark coast. Yes, feast and war, their words play the melody of migratory birds, the warm sound of the sun has fallen asleep between their wings.
War has an infernal dance that I hid in my forehead for ages, among its ruins are the bare legs of children, and above its waters every boat search for a sail. You were not present for the beauty of its last scene where the soldiers are back and the capitals of my song buzz like a skinny mosquito swallowing noise and questions. The soldiers have returned, their joints groaning like snow, their hats getting lost in the streets, like virgins whose foreheads kissed autumn. Here I am hearing the legends that come down from there, and this is how I will return with my lips a city whose sidewalks have fallen asleep, hills whose features have changed in the evening, in whose sands the happy tales of soldiers sink. This is how I bring out from among the jungle a new dawn that guides the galaxy every old age known by the years. This is how I bring down to the river a cow that loves vows, singing in its head the shadows of wars.