In the dream I slept all night and you were a saint,
your shirt stained yellow near the heart, spontaneously, blue under the arms.

It turns out to be music, our prayers. We went out to tell our mother
in her bulb-lit grotto.
Chipping
a little, but she still looks great,
her arms outstretched and her veil,
refuge of sinners, cause
of our joy.

Wisdom had built herself a house in the dream, I was twins,
I was looking for something.

How can the poet be called unlucky
who rides on the back of the colt?