Between the Inner Landscape
and the snow that, at times, suffocates it,
without erasing it completely,
only adjusting it,
a warm climate has settled.

In the house,
things breathe louder
than my grandparents,
whom I visit,
exactly after a year...

I shake the snow off my coat,
and the flakes,
fallen from my sleeves,
look for a roof
to climb again
and shape it more pointed,
a playful geometry,
invented by nature,
for the eyes of people,
always searching for something new.

The sun – there it is! sitting sunk
in a barrel,
pickled sun,
soured by eclipses and flights
exploring the lava of sentiments,
a patch of cloud lies on the whey.

I pull the door behind me.
Outside,
winter throws off its cloak.
With a newspaper in hand,
grandfather invites me to sit by the stove.

A ship-like thought,
which I embrace in a flash,
draws seagulls’ restlessness
toward this very moment.