In the dew
the drop inside the drop
in the eyes of a cat
a dark thunder advances
without dread and the sparkle
of the night is grafted on the corridor
towards your house
behind the door you wait
the dawn without return
under the willow the child hums
in the well the gray and greasy water
ferments the upcoming season
that already approaches too much to your indefinite body
behind the burnished crystal
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