More hopelessly than in the first dream
you walked away…
but through what streets
I do not know
since it is no longer a question
of architecture
in my city of dreams,
where meetings, vague encounters,
even glances
topple like rubble in a tropical storm:

Perhaps there are only paths of weather
after all,
all weathers and a crossroads
where heaven police
let the palm that will save you
enter the blizzard that will kill you
so that the whole world
shall see it singled out,
lonely and planted in a white swirl.
Either the city is so small
or the palm so enormous
that in any case
it fills it completely.