Covering the clay altars on our temples
with old and new faces,
we pretend, secretively,
that we don't miss anything,
that nothing hurts us.
In some favorable seasons
we are happy...
In the morning, at the side of a moment,
we wake up naked and old
but come back to life throughout the day
because it gets cold.
Our souls are so old
that they've become used to
the memory of the angel's wounds left by love...
Our flight is just a line above the sand castle we build in the evening,
when we pray or when we dream.