It is a rain like the others we are witnessing.
(Wings truly grew on my head, taking root in my amazed brain.
With my hand I sweep the ephemeral buildings.
The flashes, which the space shamefully swallows with its eyes, constantly juxtapose these pains as fine as the interval of a synapse. Untranslatable duration.
In a flutter of wings I will change the sky into a living brazier.)
It is a storm that illuminates the decomposed city.

The fortresses (mouse mills in the alcove in relief of mineral childhood, basilicas of gnomes in the bronchi of the creative movement), in which we were comfortably installed, crumble; we are back.

The reflection of our frail dreams dissipates in a mist.

the hurricane
seeded among feathers and brambles