The bark of this early spring day moves in stealthy
—do not undo me! soon will come the time of streets dirty with Jacaranda flowers, the heat, and I will balloon and burst if I don’t find the obvious way.
This gust of March used to be a celebration,
now my enemy hides amongst foliage, drunk with ripe words and applause
How do you miss a day of life?
No sick days against foul seasons ‘I don’t sleep well, doctor, I’m a zombie, a man with no reference at hand’. So much for songs and documents plastic bags and filth in the pond.