She is singing and escapes

 She is singing and escapes. His hands take my name. Silk from its threads. They hang me like a landscape. In the agitation of the wind, perfume sensitive to your mouth. All destinations are your lips. Many, involuntary, humorous. Variable circumstances. Playing in the invisibility of the always in fi nite present. In the supreme tenderness of silk. In the directions of your flight. The great visions make melodies of the abyss. You fly, Southern Cone, night cone, great flights with no return. On the vision of the oceans and eternal forests, as a horizon. His tenderness. Gift of the Gods. Reality as great divine dreams. Who have trembled to the wide fear of divinity.

Sense, then ex-isto as hypo/thesis.