Circles of light in the sky, headlights that refuse to look at the asphalt. Is it true or true, that all roads are confident, in our own movement. Turn on the heel and look forward. The reflection of your tracks is on the palms of heaven, wet with tears. There you draw all the ways, bright circles of walking. The rain can not erase them. Is it true or true, that we are born birds, dripping from a drop of rain in their own celestial reflections.
