Leaving the Old Neighborhood
In the dream I slept all night and you were a saint,
your shirt stained yellow near the heart, spontaneously, blue
under the arms.
It turns out to be music, our prayers—
we went out to tell our mother in her bulb-lit grotto.
a little, but she still looks great,
her arms outstretched and her veil,
refuge of sinners, cause
of our joy.
Wisdom had built herself a house in the dream, I was twins,
I was looking for something.
How can the poet be called unlucky
who rides on the back of the colt?
. . .