A red shudder
passes through me
I’ve opened the doors
to the silence of unknown musicians.
Impudent, I keep an eye on me.
I lose one’s way on the breezy look of this silent wave
You are enough for me.
Thirst. The memory is thirst.
Of spicy smell, of wind that moves the palms, of absolute colors that paint.
You know that short, very short flash that moves between ours gazes.
It’s the engaging gaze of those who have the shoo-in.
I run after the moment that I picked up it. That memory doesn’t exist, so I smile because that quality is only an illusion.