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Friday, September 29, 2017

Elia Casillas

The trembling leaves its funeral face on the pulse, it is a god who returns to tear us apart and reminds us of the particle in which we discover ourselves, the point that moves the creation, that came out of his hell with the hand raised. It moves us, we wait for help, to serve us, to be again the holy dust, the micro world in a movement of the earth. It follows us, in the subconscious is an angry tramp, the dark dance of Death, the navel of life in the row of God, the kind father who finally dislodges us from our shadow.


 Navojoa, Son.




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