I heard the choir of their beautiful voices,
inhuman,
calling me.
They called the crimson hope,
the footprints’ paleness,
the night.

They called the power of a sharp brush,
the rough and warm caressing
of the shadows.

I heard the murmur of their green nails,
their heartbeats,
as they grew up.
I heard the deep and exquisite squalor of their canticles,
the purple and vibrant moaning
of their throats,
when the sun was wearing out
there,
in the horizon.