Morena

Brunette, the feather in which you picked me up
rises to where the sky does not exist.
Brunette, the blood that animates light in our veins
rises.
Brunette, this window that you opened for me
presents the night in swan petals.
Brunette, who knows on what tree grows the mane
that orders
our dance from within?
With what color does the sunlight usually paint our city?
Brunette, today that very little love resists,
the earth that molds us and undresses us
-oh, brunette- contemplates our unique fur with sorrow,
and orders
our dance from within.
With what color does the sunlight usually paint our city?