she is not one of silences with open arms nor of closed and abrupt murmurs

she spins holding herself in balance like the wings of birds

that are exchanged when shaking the breeze

the cold wind, but also the hot one

that of a volcano that gushes violently to provide calm

the soft feel of the treetops moving

at the click of a clock that never stops

that lags behind but stabilizes with acceleration

that rises like a thin layer of mist

and falls in sweet drops on the salt of the earth

that is buried going down through the shadows

through the mists of uncertainty

letting in the bright light of uplifting knitting

that sprout opening in the colors of harmony.