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| [Este texto, tienes que leerlo en english]
I write from deep corners
where I fall along the day by the holes of the sun Ladies carved in salt with eighteenth shoes** and gloves rococo* take my head and they rotate it completely until exploding the base of my teeth, the innocence of my lips the aquamarine of my eyes. Seeing the moon among the grilles. Perceiving the square song of the crickets. Getting dark the sun, drumming December with two fingers stepping with my sole of flesh the solstice of summer keeping under my armpits your smile. Giaconda uncertain of my dusks, warm lady of small and hot hands as alive birds. If someone reads me almost of coincidence, the angels explode as seeds of sesame, like heavenly cockroaches grasped to the flint of the months united to the blue icon of your look. Seeing the moon when the bars fall and the paths are freed and the smooth light occupies the place that was for her since always and the smooth cats of the dawn be launched in yellow crowds "since it embroiders of its white wings of sister of charity" Oh my world! Gocho Bersolari
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