Under the dark blanket of storm sheets,
As my steps try to spit back the rain,
I try in vain,
To do the same with those screams:
Spit them from my memory.
By the Ebro I spotted a girl,
Only the scruff of her pale neck emerged from her dark wet hair,
As she bent over,
The violence of the river, angrier and bolder.
Her white skin burned,
it burned like a rose of fire.
Some moments after I passed her,
With her soaked black dress,
The white noise of the wind and rain,
Was pierced by a splash.
Repeated cries seemed,
To flow downstream,
Then the silence slowly closed in on me.
And I hid in it.