How To Put Bombardier Tundra On Timing

WOMEN OF BASIL

This makes the landscape: Put
sky above, sky by two halves.
A flock of clouds, a lone tree, put a line in the middle,
but far, far away, and let me stay in solitude for her.
For look at the sunset, because it, for nothing, to see again doves simple, twilight
let me on this shore, where I look in
and where I have as a child's blood, let me be the clay, I know
the air, between being and nothing, I get to be quiet.
A package of silence where the wind is delayed.
Stone, stopped for a moment, he always leaves a little dust partner.
A beach of goodbyes, a tired dancer, who a thousand years ago called eddies.
and spins, spinning on one foot at a distance.
This makes the landscape, looking at the source, sky above the eyes and under
blood if I have to have, the sacred offices, I have to make bread, kneading
early, cover it when the sun climbs to the birds.
And let it grow as the fruit slowly in October, patriarchal
the shade of trees. If I have to have the wood of the quebracho
oven warms me from the red to white.
when they come I have mine in the rain, I have
bread wheat and I sound like petticoats. I have that if I put it like a sun on my children
table blinking, dazzled
laugh until I bring a Ollada of locro smoking,
and my man the bread on your chest bigger and there between their voices laborious and dull look
slow down the moon slices.
So, if I remember, the passage from memory, I remember apart,
I remember and I do not remember, I filled the dishes away from the sound,
as looking back, like behind the handkerchief, and while the fried roll red pepper
feel that suddenly collapses oblivion, ay ...
And a year spent dreaming ..... basil
happens that ever happens, the year womanizer, a maiden walking
without looking up, and learn from the old touch of the blind.
A guard at the ear some mischief, pitting
bee a fairy funeral, basil seed bank of the canal sound
until all the bulls loose carnival and more then shoots
Pujllay sadness and never know who burned the skirt.
The thing is that sulfur is the senses, and right there in espaldotas fall to spring. Carnival is
devil knows all the tricks, nipping at the forts innocent of flour,
chaya you so much joy to the poor multitude simple, that everything is just Ash Wednesday.
Then come the tears, come back everyday and if lucky, one has
who ronde houses, the faster will soon have to stop the ranch, because it comes
Fall vidala tired.
mine all to gather at the table and tell what I have with the fingers of the soul.
moons were long and the children grew and death could not give us back the tobacco.
This is nice when everything returns to your site, clear the memory
is broken in the spoons,
all I figure how to pray alone,
and is as if we ate inside a bell. Back
expected night stop in the walnuts.
And a scent of basil, goes up into the wind.

ARMANDO TEJADA GOMEZ