You tell me that I invented your eyes. That we are the recognized ones. From the blind bottom of the eyes. From which you recognize me as not being. Not even in my own resemblance. Through which the shadows see. The lived. By shadow stroke In the close silences. In the time that crosses the horizon. Always time away from the bodies. In the rumor we knew. Who were the ones who fed our dreams. In the endless dialogue of the dead.