For the seeds that fall in the heart of winter,
because of the stone, because of the seed that accidentally fell from the pocket of childhood. The child runs on the snow in the afternoon of winter, and the almonds were in his pockets. From a small crack, a tiny piece of red fabric slides out of the lining of his pants and now it’s on the ground. The fragile leaves that gradually turn into soil and greet their mother. Between two rocks in the heart of distant centuries, it has found a comfortable place and sees nothing, knows nothing, only hears the sound of the world moving from the mice digging in the ground. It moves from the swift jumps of rabbits and gets hit on the arms of other rocky stones. It’s hard, it doesn’t understand pain, the pressure on it is the pulse of life in the chest of the earth. The hard and intense earth pushes it forward. It’s colder down here, death smiles in the darkness but it keeps going, it