And then,
the fury boils in my blood,
because I can hear cellos and violins on the silence;
when I think of you.

I turn my self into an extint quetzal,
and the rainforest cries,
because I don't have you,
since nothing of this is real,


and I'm still thinking of you,

then I look trough the window,
to the sky,
and I see clouds,

then I imagine that we are making love,
and we fall asleep,
and we dream of I don't know what random things;

suddenly I come back to reality,
when I see two hummingbirds trough the same window,

and everything turns out to be stridentist,

like a rattle of my heart when your tongue relish my right earlobe,

and I think of you,

and my hands are the color of your voice,
so deep...

And nothing matters now,

because, fiercely, you endure, ungraspable
like an aria in the opus of my mind,



and now, you have become real...