This language is what my grandmother used tonight, looking from inside the frame. Her mouth remained closed, the words I heard them clear. My grandmother, she learned the language as you do water, flowing down from the cave, when she plays midnight walk hugging the low walls; and the irrigation ditches, where wash liners and sheets, feels ciof and ciof on the stones, and you get a hay dust of words, blown by the wind, flying through the roof terraces. My grandmother, she got up one night, along with the fairies of water, to come to the city. For fear of spirits, ranging, wandering in the dark, she said the rosary for the trails. It arrived early in the morning immediately after an orchard of apple trees, there were houses and houses on all sides. She asked the name of a street, listening to a siren, she came in a spinning mill. “Listen as he talks about this girl”, thought looking into her eyes, shopkeepers and break them, “it looks like a wren that comes from the gardens” This language, I know, but do not speak, is the language of the dead.