Me mojé los pies con tanta lluvia.

Y fue, casi, la mejor historia en muchos años de su vida.

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I enshrouded myself into a large song without any metric I mumble words of intensive tattle; this is my song and then no more No more accusing or provoking chaos smoothly sounds of joy There are the whisperings of my remembrances in your nights I wish to be absented of the lacerate everybody’s song In the complete silence of your breath, of your spicy humors to compose me A song without a word Without any word of vacuity A window trough my walk, walking wiry Papyrus of my dreams, anxiety in my bones, burning Slowly burning of ensemble voices, vanishing in a strenuous mean Concomitant evocation of my giddiness My song is not full of words but of sounds Exacerbation of my head Pleasure at my hands At my feet Continual nirvana of delight Together with me just these whirling temptations Of shock At my feet, specially there Where my whole relies on Mi song is not a song but a confluence of sounds All around! All, all around!
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