The field lied on his back, next to the horizon,
and the trees stopped, from the running of the icy wind…
My nostrils are trembling
and no scent,
and no breath of wind,
just the distant smell, of ice,
of the suns.

And nobody’s passing by
just the white suns spin around quietly
and the thought rises in circles
rendering sonorous the trees
two by two,
four by four.