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And though the sun is years away it's hard to say its sky hasn't the same passion –where else did all those storms come from? telling this tree what's what–its branch still wet already has the mother's leaves and this ribbon you brought for the crucial hours –you tie two knots as if the tree was giving birth to twins and slowly one shadow that won't cry will just lie close already being bitten by flies nobody needs –it was a difficult labor the belly swollen, torn but who can say who was the first to reach the sun and carry back those flames that bleed forever –even at night these dead twigs have your emptiness, your fingers freezing with cradlesong.

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