Going down the road I imagined in myself
the horrible death of the mountain,
and when I arrived I learned about the truth,
which down the road I had mostly preconceived.
The men dressed in black cotton
started to mourn,
I saw that dead defiance
and I wondered why they forgot
in those late hours where roosters do not sing
to choke with cotton all its holes.
Perhaps the darkness of the mountain
gave birth to a new death.
I was wrong. There flew dark blue woods
from Mountains and flooded all with Mountains.