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And so the day begins: interrupted by dreams, daylight slowly filtered through lazy bones and aching shoulder­blades. What's a month if not breath, a pause, a mid­day nap. So Winter days come to end while temperatures still freeze lives against their will.

Leaves are not seen any more, but they will surely come again. I lack fur to hide in caves, but I'm primitive enough to invent fire as if nothing had ever happened.

Profile for Ernesto Priego

Days of Flowers  

A hay(na)ku chapbook.

Days of Flowers  

A hay(na)ku chapbook.