I was born under the marble
in a little alley
where it only fitted
the double god.

There, every stone
was also a memory
without a monument,
a history without writing.

It wasn’t the city
that was touching the sky
but him who was leaning
in order to kiss it.

I was playing with the pebbles
of the stone sea
and was waiting for the sand,
the wind of the desert.

My wings were not opened
they weren’t appearing yet
the fingers of light
and the palm tree of fire.

Yet I knew every stone of the neighborhood,
every courtyard flower.
my world was a handful
but in this handful the whole world would fit.