Arena Y Limo

Under the asphalt, the mud and sand die of sorrow. In their womb, they have sown irons and harvest stones. Neither the rains navigate them nor the wind blows them, nor did they see females mature by day and stars shine by night. They may, mud and sand, to see the full moon, tear the black mantle of the asphalt. They may, sand and mud, become a road again. From the mountain descends a hot west wind whistling, and a sour scent of pastures, and the stream murky. And a turtledove, blinded by a biting sun, gets lost splashing the morning pregnant with green. They may, scent and song, run under the asphalt. They may play and love and cradle... They may, sand and mud, become a road again.