[From a letter from Augusto Al Q'adi Alcalde, 9/28/00]

Shared Máte Drinks

And yes, once in a while

the howl rises

or laughter, or cry, or wail,

these cells, these bones,

are dancing me, are walking me

are telling me the old tale

that the stones don't fly

and lead is lead, and gold is gold

is gold and the pockets

welcome one and trigger the others

and the lead is guest

together with sister blue sadness,

aunt poverty, mother Parca Death

is guest I say but invader

of wet hearts, palpitating

skin land leaf wave

they don't fly, says the tale, no,

the stones, and now stay quiet,

heart, eyes, eyebrows, pulse,

stay, enough is enough, shadow, dream,

there is an armchair, a bed, a grave,

sit down, lay down, be buried,

that the dream don't dance no more,

the horizon is flat

and the sun never rises from below,

and the lead is lead and the gold

is gold, and why then do I feel,

that they are walking me, lying me, the old

tale is just that, and the stones,

fly flap their wings fertilize

like cóndor birds of shared máté drinks.