by Juan Antonio Garcia
The nothingness or her illuminated face,
Heaven under a hell of mud
The place towards we move
The place where our glance turns white.
We are mirrors of nothing, humans
When we discern our path of silt,
We expect to see a space and a time
But we are nothing and thus we dream
Nothing is space and nothing is time
Nothing our interior neither our exterior
Beings that don´t long for anything,
They only live for laughter or for nothing.