The time is of rubber,
an iron snowflake is melted in my hands,
I rip my eyes off and look at myself.
I stretch myself on the soil
and my mouth fills with light.
The walls parade showing its equal phases,
stone on stone.
I begin shouting one day.
In one century my echo is still fresh and unknown.
I turn, little by little,
into a roving statue
advancing its cemented feet.
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