She tells me of A sadness made of leaves Of leaves returning to their limbs Of faces turned upside-down Of dark cavities A little smaller than abandon She tells me of The incest between my hands Fondly caressing each other Of a clock and its hands Having the same height The same leanness Going at the same pace Children hurting bees With sewing needles Children hurting bees With sewing needles Children hurting bees With sewing needles Children hurting bees With sewing needles Children hurting bees With sewing needles Children hurting bees With sewing needles