Camelot was his kingdom of paper, her empire confused in nature, that covers the nights of his profile without providence. She did not bring good fortune and the moon were the path of his coppery feet, terraces where the cats talked and she directed his love with them, when the blood ran she emptied in spells, without God, without stairs, or beetles. She recorded solitudes when her beast solfeged a nocturnal song. There is no fear, in the face of darkness she thinks that wins a battle and barely wakes up in the nightmare she tells herself.
Navojoa, Son. Feb./19/2007
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