Eloy put a few seeds in my hand.
Thirty trees tomorrow, a forest fifty years later,
birds find the south in those trees,
wolves find shelter. And the ants grow
like a body between blind and sleepy roots.
At some point a house and another house
will be built by those woods and winter
will be lowered inside sediments.
Autumn with its total boredom
will put its heavy feet on the thick trunks
and will not conquer them.
Nothing will make them break.
And in a hundred years a hundred men
will be happy men loving their husbands
under those broad roofs, a perfume of forest
will still be floating in the children
who will arrive into their lives.
The world will be the world and night will still be night.
Owls will have bigger eyes and they will eat sparrows
as well as scorpions. And the mouse will be as minimal
as a strange insect, his pale hair will make him invisible
from November to February, and he will have no enemy.
Neither the eagle nor the man, if any, the serpent.
Thirty trees tomorrow,
lavender and red flowers grow in that forest ... .
Yesterday, some seeds that Eloy put in my hand
that I threw to the sky.