When I was younger than my brain can remember,

I was embraces by walnut trees, they became my ceiling,

so when I was there my breath feel like oil from all that nuts falling,

my head chocked with the creepling and echoing sound of the skull,

they didn’t got squirrels, but smelled like soap and iron,

my blood tasted the same as that tree before me,

someone in the background will tought me not to be there,

at the ground were buried the bodies of revolutionaries, and some witches,

abuelita will said that her dad will visit some relatives near the aisle,

because nobody get flowers to the cemetary away from town,

Ciudad Victoria keep all that rumbling in my soul,

remembering how the sound of locked lions was heard from a furthest place

turn off some of mi biggest fears, but those are the ones that serve as seeds

so when the time pass by become something from growth,

my memory needs to buy that place and save it in this words.

Hapiness is fake if you standarize it, but for our own

could or should or must work, dunno