| This is the song to the mistakes; mistaken ideas, mistaken loves, mistaken friends. Routes that go toward the enigma of the beginning: blind, crazy, voracious. The dusk signs and seals the signatures of so many mistaken hands. The scarce light announces a vision that should be certain, passing over the things buried alive in the force of coinciding once with something genuine. Soul, at this hour and in the veracity accompany with an appropriate Psalm for the waiting. Offer me life. If you give me a tree, one must accept it. A tree never makes a mistake. The river, for example, knows its mission. It does it. And if this is, my soul, a mistaken canto? |