Poem
Every woman we called out to: ‘Oh, tree,’
We climbed to where its fruits were
We swayed from the intoxication of its birds
Then we broke its branches
And we were broken.
O you who rains without being touched by a season
or that a year passes by you
O you who are the feast in every sunny song...
I have mastered the game!
The game of being torn like maps that only care about…
Capturing the anxieties of earthquakes.
