I gave her the history of the water and saw the plants take the blame for their grandchildren.
In her loneliness I planted stories and poems about the prisoners of war waiting on my balconies for time to ripen and pick out the mystified mint from my body. They were dead, arbitrating the carpet of my days, deflowering my mail, violating, hiding, and
A little while ago I found the garden of my house full of them,
listening to me, astonished
As the green that approaches like a gazelle surrounded my limbs and prepared me for slaughter.