" ... Strangely,
on the back of a stone remained one of its wings ..."
José Watanabe ( The Winged Stone )
S BOUT my rough skin
beat Shadow of the birds,
thirst ethereal water flowing his sculpture,
generous echo chisel.
stone on my skin
hunger in sharp circular die,
of undress minimum anchors
to copulate drop torture.
over my hard shell, charred,
a stealthy kiss cry in the morning dew.
O Pelican wing.
And the center as the bones of a mature fruit,
cave voice
arcane architecture.
Soledad Sánchez Mulas
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