Oceans of kisses, hands of algae
that one day I stroked
before I was,
without memory of you,
far from Ítaca.
And today I have returned to look at myself
in your silence,
in the sweet quietude of your look.
And you do not recognize me, do not hold me.
You weave, unravel, days of silence
Shrouds of courage and empty grey
While the vultures overfly your soul.
(From "The trip of souls", a book about paintings by Francisco García Torcal)