You will wash your body possessed by the shadow. With the first blow of water, the skin will snatch a name from memory. You will want to say Lethe, song of the sinister, diamela, but you will be mute by fright. In the wait for he who rings blackbirds in the air, you will discover yourself distinct from the rest of Eve’s daughters and speak for the nude:I am the one who floats on the river, the stripped one. Mother’s dust extracted from her girl in trance. The naked one they say the stray beast. Why so many clothes if a name is searing on my skin? What is the point to dress in cloud, turquoisish, if from burning I am dying? I seek chords in the mist to appease my silence. I abandon myself in the language of the boats. From the cypress dreamt by lonely lovers a lullaby for the sad girls is born. On the almond tree branches, the oboist’s heart ripens.