yesterday my dead girl spoke in a dream 
telling about the elongation of miseries 
and the indifference and lies of our rainmakers 

she called again last night after the rain 
and spoke of our first touch, kiss, and love 
she was soft and slow as those classical jazz sessions 
    
she recounted the different sessions 
and the carnivals of la paz 
her words dreamy as if she was in bed stroking my hair 

I walked with her in the dream speaking 
the language of love like our hamlet's hermit 
with puzzles and secrets of our runaway rainmakers