The woman walking in front of his shadow.
The one to whom light precedes like birds
to the celebrations of the solstice.
The one that nothing has kept for itself
except his youth
and the stone set in tears.
She who has spread her hair on the tree
that blooms in autumn, the one that is docile
to the insinuations of its leaves.
The woman whose hands are the hands of a child.
The one that is visible now in silence,
the one that offers his eyes
the dark animal that looks meekly.
The one who has been with me in the beginning,
the woman who has drawn
the shape of things with the water that hides.
