“We connect all paths and ploughed fields
With the salt of the sea and scent of the pasture,
The streets of the towns and the ash-coloured hills
Where the moon and stars never turn their back.
Conversations in the street and whitewash that floats
Above low walls, encrusted by the unhurried
Sun, pointing to the solitude they feel.
The heart of these spaces we have traced with our nails
Is a nameless stone, with spots of earth,
Which has been rolling for years, blown by the wind signed
By the sea that lever flees, and the islands’ rocks,
Leaving furrows wherever they go, never opening any windows,
Like the voice of the crops, who every spring
Raise their eyes to the sky without stepping back.”