Self-portrait

A drop is going down the hill, avoiding the river, hesitating to fountains but looking at them in the distance; it tries the imitation game, allowing itself to flow in the mud and, when it's getting closer to the ocean, it stops, carefully, holding each atom against the force of gravity and then... disappears.

A voice discovers its tone, trivialising its pitch and spitting out in silence; is hidden in that northern city of stars without night, to start living in the moon and, when finds the sun that is lighting it, decides to run with a steel case. A new home is that other southern city where it was possible to sing even without a melody. Is a shelter that is carried out by the wind, not a storm but the time going by.

A hand is showing its chapped skin and pats lovingly. The fingers touch broken wings and knit a net above the head. The naked body lies down to dream awake, it covers up the legs with flowery autumns and shakes the sand from that imagined beach where the wood was crackling next to a bunch of marshmallows.