The wind comes back to blow, carrasco of the long dusty roads, it is feigned an impulse as if we were to speak of new features and a new history was born almost of this moment hypocritical. Who hears the wind knows that it cannot understand it with the easiness of that they know its touch. Who knows the wind in the height of the dawn only has that to discover that if it cannot hide. Those that knows the truth hide pain in the bottles that go loving. The others arrange the body between the hot one and the security that if can find in it I hug that the hand of who is stolen when holding is together and allotment the stream bed. As if to verify of the possibility of the assault of the solitude. Who hears thus the wind simply comes back the coasts and comes back to sleep.
The Patrician knows who is. It knows of that side of its dream listening that wind. The dry sound of one door that if closes wakes up what still if it can translate for alert, in a lowermost space of its being. The sound of the engine, the speed that if it initiates, the window that if open and creating of its proper wind. That one that will not be able to belong nobody more. Perhaps it was possible in that one exactly second, side by side to be able to remove of that moment the days that already had been, what it wanted to forget. Everything added to the possible one of today with the certainty of the last hours and to discover that the error only exists, against the account that if is unaware of, because never held the will necessary one day later to become melancholy that night. So stranger for so being repeated.