Petenera

She unstitches cobwebs dripping when dawn arrives
And hangs them out to dry in the undergrowth of her eyes that, when thundering
Swear by the olive groves that nursed them
That they will leave headless every early morning

The piranhas circle her and she copes by urging her gaze
To drive them away with ticks that want to devour her
And be the forest mist that watches and doesn't let others watch
Winter plume thirsty for my tear duct

Her attire of dry firewood, her lament petenera
The carriage raw that takes her inside
The disheveled smile of going against the winds
She joins even the reeds that were firm
Before being dethroned

And she has never been swayed by the noise of the crowd and its existence
Comrade of the shrews, as in the song of the martin
That finds meaning in the continuation of the end

Her attire of dry firewood, her lament petenera
The carriage raw that takes her inside
The disheveled smile of going against the winds