Canción, eres canción y canto, nube de hoguera al mediodía. No menguas como hoja seca que el placer mata. Nunca fui tanto encendido a golpes de deseo. Si aquel aire negado el cielo nos depara la injuria de la vida, y truena, truena a golpes de candado, abre las puertas poeta como si la poesía inventaras. Y si la honda de los dioses golpean los campos y hacen caer las aceitunas, recoge los frutos en tus manos y canta.
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