I have seen your tracks starting from your palace in the desert towards the great plantations of barley; I see you pounding with the cold my wait and your white dress flying, passing to the edge of the fjords you come, you come from the moor spilling on the pillow music with pre-Columbian flutes, with thirsty step you take all the broth of my rain while I roll repeatedly for questions of sand, playing I to decline the infinite verb.

You extend your arm. Morpheas. You give me your number, you give me your gender during the concordance of each word uttered from the dream. You catch me between your breasts, indecent doll opening at dawn. Dirty from you, rude from you, fragrant over you, it's me, for you, the water lily that appears stained with mud and fire. It does not matter, nothing matters without you, with you I follow the march of chaos between your breasts. You give me crumbs the direct bread of your lips, your labors that wrap each bell, each tessitura of voice, emphasizing the aria of the universe that is circular, ferris wheel, and you go away as the birds go and I look for you with my oars down there, in the fiery water, in the deep belly where birds trill, copulate and go mad.

I smell your body. I follow your compass, your blog, your way. Humid for centuries, I take your route of agglomerated stelae in the basins of memory. Be an arrow, be a genesis, be thirsty obsidian, be the word lover of repeated silk that gives heaven to others; Cover me now or I will be devastated forever and I will be left with nothing if you leave, I swear, if you do not come back I will put my face in an underworld of snakes so they can make my face what they want with their mischief.

You appear and disappear where the castes do not dare, swimming like a Caribbean fish in my bed, like dying, like a sacred disease that knocks me down. Through your legs dripping golden light composing a prayer, an amber liquid runs from the bellows, from your mountains and from your waves emerges an odor that underlines the navy blue, which is gualda or is rather orange horizon, which fatally alienates the senses very close to your grammar coast, which intoxicates me and makes me circling around by entering your spirals by the word gate.

Gracias por leer.

Viva Venezuela.