One of these days you’ll start crying over the beginning.
We were never meant to plant these seeds, but the rhythm drew us away from the butterflies’ sanctuary
Into the horse valley we drown our dreams one by one.

One of these days you’ll start crying over the second of sin.
Over your future leaves, too well constructed into your memory to flow into the sea, yet too star-like to believe.
The sky has flooded our hopes, Malinche, darling!

One of these days you’ll start crying over tomorrow.
The sun is a second away from the eclipse, yet you see no blood falling from above.
The flesh is still fresh. I hope my flower will grow another petal some other hour.