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Tramontana is unleashed on my bay

time, further south one winter night I dreamed, that it freezes your creations dreamlike icebergs around you talking, and let perpetual spring wind realities. Far away, one of those nights cold north wind made its appearance, and woke up with turbulent, until a later, long after he knew of that terrible wind, it's true that explodes against the cliffs from Catalonia and splendor that embedded in my soul. In so engrossed
we collapsed inadvertently by one of those many chasms without falling (yet) to the massive stone and slashing , bizarre skin; enjoying the fresh air slowly descended unknown lap, for that season gait splendid girl, showed the solid mass on my side, the steppe dancing cryptic sometimes clinging to others I lit my wrist between his legs and we sank, we collected pebbles like fireflies gather stars involved in this breath of hell, we fell in turns incessant, sometimes vertical and others upside down, we fell not imagine where or when we stop, covered into oblivion in boisterous north wind and Shingle so we were overwhelmed that regalabamos every inhabitant of the village where we were drawn: seven pebbles, sea glass and a rowdy song.
All this and a thousand attempts to tell, transcribe , say, translating my past ... this until waking up in a spiral bed.
There is something maddeningly attractive untranslatable, lines before was just a crude attempt to silence turns words in traffic. I hope this silence to keep the unspeakable.
When I wake up with his throat repeatedly driven into his chest, I think I want to translate the feeling your nerves, and callus, callus deep and sad rescued me: silence is clear that language itself!, yet nonexistent phone not respond questions with a yes or a no, because these do not allow a monosyllabic word itself is prevented. And I answer in silence than anything else is language but a giant, cacophonous excess of our misunderstanding.
you want to choose between chaos and the ability to name, as if there was a third place to be, believed mistakenly that if no name is something they do not yet exist, but only the attempt to translate, it may be that third option of being in the presence of a word that keeps to herself, in the silence that numb our bodies because we often can not, or translate what we feel. Thinking about the possibility of finding silence comforts me; think about their position, and shares its layers of nothing and therefore think of their movement, they never stop moving because I move with it, think about your voice, think of his shadow, to think that these words betraying my silences are a sort of sweet incomprehensible composition as that of the Tramontana wind that breaks out again in my bay.