Português
The crow swings on a branch
and reverberates the air
a few times in a row,
swaying its own being.
I’ve the impression that if I could fly,
I would have a hard time choosing which tree
to land, or what kind of weight is needed
when arriving at my destination.
In a life of predestined branches,
I’m the kind who undresses in winter
just to feel the warmth of leaves caressing my skin,
revisiting the warmth of body
watching itself
being emptied of seasons.
Published by Al-Tiba 9 Contemporary Art.
