...The year of our snow i didn't see it anymore.
The year our austral garden was wrapped in barbwires; the year of the wild cat and the ñandú.
The white cerebral windows of our suburbian dome were blown by the sun, in the year of the telescopic snow.
In our austral house de poupées maudites.
The year of our Antarctica, i had something missing inside of me. Such a rare atavism...
Because i was the boy with no name under south african skies, my sky.
Inside nocturnal, blue corridors of glass, the whales of the south of the world saw us pass by with our eyes shattered in tears.
.
