Porfía no vieiro nube, talvez porque son ingrávidos (o vieiro, as nubes) e se abalanzan como amor e son dosel / errantes. Brancas, púrpuras ou douradas como na pedra un lique

e son pantalla para o azur e pantalla para o escuro

propulsadas e ceibes como todo o que concentra o tempo

“as soñadoras somos centauros, pero non compartimos soños cos centauros; sómolo porque os nosos corpos son mamíferos pero o que deducimos é humano. Un centauro é unha figura de fronteira, teñen a vantaxe de poder andar polos dous lados pero non son fiábeis e espertan sospeitas, a miúdo son castigados como Tiresias. Os poemas somos centauros, podemos aplacar as feras e emocionar humanos. Se un soñador ou soñadora non sae fiador da túa vida quere dicir que non vai garantir a túa integridade, nin avalar as túas peticións. O poema é quen goberna as bestas, podes durmir cos cabalos porque non saben o que soñas”

así que hai dúas castes de centauros, os centauros poema e os centauros soñadoras; todos son fundacionais e mitos

un poeta lembra, aínda lembra, aínda

entón Eu sentiu un cansazo enorme, non era un cansazo triste, Eu era un río e lembrando quen era enrodelouse en espiral e fixo de si un niño; un niño faise con garabullos e esforzo e polo seu urdido van as anguías, as troitas, as lampreas e os salmóns dos mil ríos e todas as libeliñas, as cadelas de frade, e todas as bolboretas e insectos do verán, e todas as nubes que se reflectiron nas augas

Eu era dragoa e lembrándose de si todas as dragoas do macizo máis antigo se modificaron nun lugar de serenidade e protección, para poder pensar, que é un xeito de agradecer, vontade e destreza

e penduráronse das árbores e dos beirados das casas

e pasou por alí unha peixeira belida e díxolles
“voume para o Mekong
voume para o Zambeze”

(e o lector á autora, que é un infinito ou dous)
—o que escribes é unha crónica?
—ummmh!
—pero estamos seguros?
—si, se é unha epopea estamos seguras

pero as bestas, pero as pedras, pero os guerreiros tracios!

She keeps on the cloud path, perhaps because they’re weightless (path, clouds) and hurtle forward like love and are canopy / wandering. White, purple or golden like lichen on rock

and they’re a screen for blue and a screen for darkness

propulsed and free like everything that concentrates time

“we women dreamers are centaurs, but we don’t share centaur dreams: we’re centaur because our bodies are mammal but what we deduce is human. A centaur is a border figure, has the advantage of being able to walk on both sides but they’re not reliable and awaken suspicion, are often castigated like Tiresias. We poems are centaurs, can placate wild beasts and move humans. If no dreamer underwrites your life it means no one will back up your integrity or support your requests. The poem is the one that rules the beasts, you can sleep with horses because they don’t know what you dream”

so there are two kinds of centaur, poem centaurs and dreaming women centaurs: all are foundational and myths

a poet remembers, still remembers, still

thus I felt a huge exhaustion, not a sad exhaustion, I was a river and recalling who was coiled in a spiral made itself a nest; a nest is made with twigs and effort and into it plunge eagles, trout, lamprey and the salmon of a thousand rivers and all the dragonflies, earwigs, and all the summer butterflies and insects, and all the clouds reflected in the waters

I was dragon and remembering all the dragons of the most ancient massif altered them into a site of serenity and protection, to be able to think, which is a way to feel pleasure, will and distress

and they dangled themselves from trees and from the eaves of houses

and a beautiful fishmonger walked by and she told them
“I’m going to the Mekong
I’m off to the Zambezi”

(and the reader to the author, she who is an infinity or two)
—you’re writing a chronicle?
—ummm!
—but are we safe?
—yes, if it’s an epic, we women are safe

but what about the beasts, the stones, the Thracian warriors!