Siurana’s gifts:
wheels that cross winding paths;
a cold that wants to dance with the skeleton;
the vision that oscillates between fog and branches in fractals;
carved stones that tell stories, and welcome the future;
yellow that screams from the ground and that infiltrates the mountain, crosses thoughts;
blue that sighs from a puddle and that reflects the first rays of the next morning, in frozen dew.
“Is it over yet?”
