Say that I know a thousand of tales
written on sheets of hair
women without faces
churches made of sand
there is some kind of drama in their hands
given to sleep
and when they think they are talking with their god
mistaking names again
women disembodied
hot wax statues
I submersed my hands into them
until the horizon
somewhere between the beginning and present time
I carved a bit of dreams and cards into them
and this certainty that one day they will overripe
like fruits at my feet
mindless women
made of green rowan berries
straw and silk
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