In moments when we sense

that we are made of air,

we see ourselves in the real light.

Then we happen to see

a geometric painting, the pattern of which

irresistibly reminds us of an eye pupil.

Content, we turn inwards,

to dance for the first time:

the cosmic tango.


The sun is gone,

but it’s still hot.

It’s time to release

everything I have written.


Visions of death prepare me

for humility

and I am finally starting

to look like myself.


First the shoulders experience a mild sensation.

Familiar, but long forgotten.

Untouched, they freeze in the moment.


Hair is sensitive, but healthy.

Her awakening discreetly coincides

with his arrival.


I know the origin of this feeling,

but for want of a better name,

I will call it magnolia.

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