Where is Cain?

And where is Cain?,

which gets lost inside if?

Let's be the heretics of this world,

Let's go to the land that waits for us.

Every handwriting of this wind is a sound of my voice

your voice

a wave of silence and ripple

that enters to the ear and one shelters melodic in the body.

I listen to a rain that does not exist,

it wets me a rain that does not exist,

and I, spongy, as a cotton speck,

as the land.

A trip to the seed

To The egg incubated in my

To The ice where even

there fades away a stela of the voice of the giants.