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Hello mold, little salt sculpture,
salt that suffers without the sweet
sweet digging of your hands
smooth hands covered with snow
snow that smells of thirst
thirst of dark silence of roses
roses that feel cold
cold of tired evenings at night
AND SO I SLIDE INTO THE ICE OF YOUR WORDS
WAITING FOR IT TO BE WATER
WAITING FOR IT LET IT BE SAND, WHO SEEKED REVENGE FOR EVERY FOOT THAT WALKED, HE JUMPED, HE DANCED, HE FELL. Tears printed on his light face, a face that deceived every heart that stopped
stop that throbbed with festive afternoons
party among flies that landed on skin
skin worn out by too many cold hands
cold from too much sand left in the air
air of wind incorrect in posing
posing bare words on hot steam.
AND SO I SLIDE INTO THE ICE OF YOUR WORDS
WAITING FOR IT TO BE WATER
WAITING FOR IT TO BE SAND
WHICH SEEKED REVENGE FOR EVERY FOOT THAT WALKED, JUMPED, DANCED, FELL.