Day, cheek of the planet
Looking for light,
Flame of Dawn
Wrapped
In the cold of the nets,
Or at the bottom,
Or at the top.

Holding On
By the hand of the sun,
So as not to break
From the masonry of the orbit,
Looking in the space of the window
Does not stop its flight.

When will it finally come to naught
The intended goal?
And the sun in the dance warms:
“Trust me, I will prove.”