by Liliana Noemí López, Sections Editor


Window panes are weeping because children

Press their noses against them, their breath

Fogging up the glass face.

They weep when moths throw themselves

Against their cold glass countenance again and again:

Maybe if they just got out in the rain the watercolors,

The palette of God would bleed into their lifeless wings.

Window panes are what separate Juan Pablo from

Maria Iribarne, window panes make the little things seem like

Drops of eternity falling down an elusive glass window,

Caught between reality and the blurred vision

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