resting on the rubble that soothes us. that cleanses our filthy wounds. rubble that speaks of times that are beyond measure. can you feel, how its cold caresses, how we modestly flower besides the telluric remnants? unlike the purveyors of futurity, we remain present on this deathbed of ancestry. what do we tie ourselves to? one day this sweet pulverous kiss must fade. one day we must leave, the others are waiting to squat here. to, once more, fuse with this ground. to fence us off or fence themselves in. who are we to claim this bedrock. to fall in love with its crisp clench. I only know who you are. thereby, I build myself from rabble. carne se vuelve polvo. but not to feed the gods with our indulgent flesh, only to remember that it is life, that rises from the dead.