Chapter 3
I was looking for the place where crows die.
Now, that spring tangled in your hair,
I can disfigure my childhood.
I know you like to draw
and Japanese dolls catch your attention,
I know you are attracted to the echo of tears
and what remains on the edge of life
makes you blink a lot,
I know you are not afraid of forgetting, that its scars
serve you to dance the salsa
of the days that devour their name.
I made mud clouds
and had a dog that peed on my mud clouds.
Dog and cloud are raining words,
there is a discontinuous rain
of souls, in silence.
The clouds trafficking the memory of your hands;
the dog lying between people's feet
on the six-fifteen train,
staring at the exit,
with its silver collar
where simply appears a phone number
as if there were a diminutive of souls.
These are spring things,
those screams that mute in my throat.
Your hair is now
what I resist forgetting,
the place where crows die.
Precisely, the blood of crows,
gives, in my arteries, six fifteen in the morning,
and I ask for forgiveness
if I forgot that years
do not always get distracted
in the same swamp.
I ask for forgiveness
away from any language.
I fear there are no clouds to love you
and I will have to rain out of nowhere.
