You are not strangers to me, houses of the border, black holes that swallow every breath. You are not strangers to me, houses of the sunset I spy on you through the cracks of the dying sun.
Neither is strange to me the way he goes and comes to you and to the square, now lazy, now fast. In this square where I’m still blinded by the festival’s light that makes us dance, drunk, lovers of paradises and sparkling skies.
How brittle is this mirage that melts just touching it with the fingers, and reappears with the rhythm of the misleading dance that revolves relentlessly around the four horns where all desire is sacrificed.