Feather to fire, fire to blood, blood to bone, bone to marrow, marrow to ashes, ashes to snow…
Pluma a fuego, fuego a sangre, sangre a hueso, hueso a tuétano, tuétano a cenizas, ceniza a nieve…

If you come to me at this moment, your minutes will become hours, your hours will become days, and your days will become a lifetime.
Ever since my house burnt down, I see the moon more clearly, I gazed upon the Evens that have fallen in me, I saw Evens that I had held in my hands, but let go, I saw promises I did not keep, Pains I did not sooth, Wounds I did not heal, tears I did not shed, I saw deaths I did not mourn, Prayers I did not answer, doors I did not open, doors I did not close, Lovers I left behind, And dreams I did not live, I saw all that was offered to me, that I could not accept. I saw the letters I wished for, but never received; I saw all that could have been, but never will be.
An elephant with his trunk raised is a letter to the stars; A breaching whale is a letter from the bottom of the sea. These images are a letter to my dreams, these letters are my letters to you.
My heart is like an old house, who’s windows have not been opened for years, But now I hear the windows opening, I remember the cranes floating above the melting snows of the Himalayas, Sleeping on tails of manatees, the songs of the bearded seals, the bark of the zebra, the clicks of the sand, the ears of the caracals, the sway of the elephants, the breaching of whales, and the silhouette of the eland, I remember the curl of the meerkat’s toes, floating on the Ganges, sailing on the Nile; I remember wandering through the corridors of Hatshepsut and the faces of many women, endless seas and thousands of miles of rivers. I remember father to children, and the taste; I remember the pealing of the peach, I remember everything, But I do not remember ever having left.
I can’t tell if you are getting closer or farther away, I long for the serenity I found when I looked upon your face, Perhaps if your face could be returned to me now, I would find it easier to recover the face I seemed to have lost, My own.
The whales do not sing because they have an answer, they sing because they have a song.
What matters, is not what is written on the page, what matters, is what is written in the heart, So burn the letters, and lay their ashes on the snow, at the river’s edge when spring comes and the snow melts, and the rivers rises, return to the banks of the river, and reread my letters with your eyes closed, let the words and the images wash over your body like waves. Reread the letters, with your hand cupped over your ear.
In the beginning of time, the skies were filled with flying elephants, Every night they lay down in the same place in the sky, And dream with one eye open. When you gaze up at the stars at night, You are looking into the unblinking eyes of elephants, who sleep with one eye open, to best keep watch over us.
Remember your dreams… remember your dreams… remember…