Susana

Susana has a house by the river. She takes you to hear the water and the boats at sunset. And the night by her side is yours. She's half crazy and that attracts you. And she offers you tea and oranges from distant lands. And when you're about to tell her that you have no more love for her, she picks up on it. She looks at the river and hints that she has a love forever. And you want to walk the path with her. And you know she walks it blindly. And you know she trusts, her body gives itself to yours for nothing. And Jesus, a sailor one day, when he crossed the water barefoot, spent some time observing and saw that only a few men were looking for him: only those who were drowning. And he said: 'From now on, men will be sailors and will go with boats...'. But he drowned, too, at sunset. Lonely like a man, he cast his cry upon us. And you make his path yours. And you want to follow it blindly. You trust him, maybe forever. His spirit moves yours, like a body. And then Susana takes you by the hand by the river. In her dress, she carries the roses and rags from the trenches, while the sun floods the disgust of the earth's monuments. And she teaches you to see things you wouldn't have known to see, among the garbage and among the fiery flowers, how there are heroes among the seaweed, how there are children without love. And Susana keeps the mirror. And you make her path yours. And you want to follow it blindly. You trust her, maybe forever. Her spirit fits your body.