in my head
and I pull out
my brain
and squeeze serenely
my grey substance
between
my fingers
and when all
the fluid
is drained
without any words
onto the soil
only a flower
is left in
my palm
which flower
I seek since
my childhood
and which caresses
my forehead with
its white
hands
and talks to me
tenderly
and talks
about the dreams
that whistle in the night
so ever quietly
so passionately
like fingers
like tears
Libros Libertad 