My sight has altered
the raw heat, leaves me without breath
my face laughs
my hearth cries
pushed by the odor
estranged by life

my skin talks to them
the cold winds of his earth
they clean my rough face
the turbid heat of his star

I don't have the gift
but, I can understand what the say
don't really do it some things
you reflect
and you think that what the say

only irrelevant senses
I can stay
I can say what they tell me.