Symphony of artichokes

As if it were about listening to sticks,
she swirled free over the pannels,
stormy in emerald bread.

The invisible notes rose in the air,
each soft chord eats the breeze,
echoing among the bestial flakes.

The sun, maestro, reacted to the spectacle,
painting eyes in tones of leather and flesh,
as he lassoed himself with the wind.

There in the hustle and bustle of heights,
the soul contracted its secret trespass,
woven between the ureter and the uterus.