Birds of the ravines

 We will no longer be for what is erased. Birds of the ravines. Precipices, like feathers, dead. Of stones of love. Nests of nothing. Desperate hands. Abandoned cheeks. What a storm they are. Of silence heard. From we are from the bottom. Of what is said heard. From the other where I recognize myself by ignoring it. Without knowing we are our own prisoners of the congruent reason that inhabits us.