Perhaps the stone of madness . . .

Perhaps the stone of madness always violently thrown against the dark stained-glass windows of reality, a more harmful reality than any potion conjured against it, consoles us in the face of such general alarm. So many shouts into the air, poetry embodied in a woman who knows about the seed sprouting in the dark, about silence looking for its harvest, about frontiers deleted when reason wears white, about the grinding of light to live among the dead.

Perhaps the stone of madness . . .

Quizás esa piedra de la locura aventada desde siempre contra los vitrales oscuros de la realidad, realidad más dañina que cualquier pócima que contra ella se conjure, nos reconforta ante tanta alarma generalizada. Ante tanto grito al aire, la poesía encarnada en una mujer que sabe de la simiente germinando en la oscuridad, de la mudez que busca su cosecha, de las fronteras borradas cuando la razón se viste de blanco, de la molienda de la luz para habitar entre los muertos.