I often stand under the trees,
Waiting for the myrtle to fall
like drops on the mouth.

I feel the earth talking under my back
unveil secrets of other worlds
It keeps silent about a City, which is under the backbone
It is being built with drills and picks.
The ear rests, weightlessly, on the ground
to feel the sweat slide down your forehead
and fill up with the din of the miners
until all the walls of the body have been touched by its echo.
Up to the point of touching the din of the tips and pickaxes.
Rests.

The green of the stems twines around the fingers
and there they remain, too
watching the myrtle fall,
sewn to the earth.

I let emerge placid purple velvet leaves,
from the clothes.

I watch the myrtle fall
And the light filtered by the flowering trees
berry after berry, pierce the veil.