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and the emptiness of pure sound, uninterrupted by the presence of beings. Time, like water, running through his fingers. Earth, like powder, estiércol, flower pot, filling someone's mouth.

The cars had stopped passing by and the murmur of the river was almost audible. The whistling wind wasn't whistling anymore and the creaking door wasn't creaking anymore because the whistling had stopped. The fog, it seemed, had  also receded, the neighbor's music

Profile for Ernesto Priego

Days of Flowers  

A hay(na)ku chapbook.

Days of Flowers  

A hay(na)ku chapbook.