I take pleasure in the way the rain beats its wings on the back of the floatin city.
The dust comes down. The air is left clean, crossed by leaves of odor, by birds of coolness, by dreams. The sky receives the city that is being born.
Thanks be to you, Mother of the Black Blouds, who have so whitened the face of the afternoon and have hlped us to go on loving life.
— Jaime Sabines