Former

The volcano dreams in the telescopic lens. Its serenity is southern, lightly clouded. The contours are distinct enough not to appear too sharp. She must have started to live again. Slowly, in the bud, she furtively looks for ways not to stem from the past. Her fingers are bony and long because of that, her cheeks wear slight hollows. She is in parties, seems happy. The dosage does not increase. She records Christmas, and not Christmas. There is a new summer, and an old one. She is with others and no longer by herself. They smile, she does too, in different places. The volcano dreams of the white-blue air and brown earth. The contours darken a little venously. They bear shades. They will be revisited soon.