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Letra por Theo Ellin Ballew:
I am a want healing
I am a want to heal
Spread like you can’t count your hands and you’re holding up the tent like a sheet and somehow still the sheet fits like bodycon. The feet everywhere are surely on paper, can they slide the papers. They are dry. So dry.
I am a want to feel behind things
I am a want to poke out the red (parts)
I was six years old when the pebbles filled each curb. They said, all will be round. They found candies there. They stayed. They melted into their round.
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Letra por Kit Schluter:
The road to the beach was impassable, gutted out in trenches by months of rain. The hermit had been walking for an hour, he thought, down this road when the helicopter passed overhead. Ducked behind a boulder to hide from view. Fifteen minutes, during which time he kneeled down by the banks of a pond to drink water with cupped hands. In the shallows, he watched the confetti of tadpoles swirling in their unwitting celebration of life and, in the still afternoon, heard the guttural retching of the mature frogs. The hermit thought of the day when his mother found him, as a child, crying in the fields near their house. She took a seat in the grass and gently laid him down in her lap. She stroked his forehead and sang him a song about the blue sky. As she sang, he looked up into this blue sky, and her voice took on the changing softness of the clouds. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes by his nose. His mother touched his cheek and drew his face close to hers and kissed his forehead. “You’ve got little frog ponds in your eyes, baby,” she said. “And I can hear them singing to you. You know what they’re singing, baby?” And he said, “No, ma.” And she said, “They’re singing, ‘Croak, croak./The well is deep,/and all the wide world is my home!” And she kissed him on the forehead and told him all the many colors and stories of the miniature frogs that lived and died on the banks of the ponds in his eyes. And this is what she said:
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Letra por Iliana Vargas:
El rumor de la nieve
Delata un misterio
En sus comisuras de viento sideral.
Es la luz
De nebulosos espectros
Que buscan el vórtice
De un lejano sol negro
Cruzan,
Entre gélidos astros diminutos,
El laberinto inmenso,
Luminiscente
Del cosmos
Para llegar al centro
De los cantos nacidos del sueño.
Agitados,
Respiran el vapor que emanan las sombras
de viajeros sonámbulos
En sus naves de fuego.
Han perdido la ruta.
Han perdido el sonido.
Han dejado sus cuerpos
A la deriva
En el frío silencio
Que cae con la nieve
Y rumora un misterio.
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