... we are building that famous tower
are we going to use different languages?
and so all our efforts would fall?
or, are we going to create the round tower?
The way to the top of the hill
at three o'clock in the afternoon
after falling three times
in the three scorching suns, the Earth opens,
it redens, dries up, dies.
Maybe from behind the wall of our tower,
two days after,
white smoke would rise,
stright up, like that in the desert,
not of the empty haze...
But of the begining
of our love... and poetry...