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.