Cerrien
Damián Antón-Ojeda
Cloud, cloud
Cloud, cloud
It’s not a fair, It’s not a festival
It’s something else, It’s my own dreamland
It’s walking through the veil of a memory
Where no one feels the green streams but I
It’s the purity that my soul wants me above the flesh of trees
The outer circle of dew and root
And from primal to the modern winds
That pulsate through her tresses
We are perfect
I will hold you in the tallest of my trees
The greatest circle of veins
Above and through
And so far
I am Damián
The D in my name alikе the green streams
I remеmber the fragrance, the mirror
I feel the cerrien days