I have walked on the edges of dreams
and returned to the aroma of your breast,
to the insolent perfume of your skin,
to the essences of winter broths.

It smells like potato roasted by the implacable fire dancers.
Your hair, like burnt wood.

I hear the hidden murmur of the mushroom,
mixed with the essences of the earth.

In the palette nest fragrances of colours.

Mª Rosa Arija Soutullo, widow of Adolfo Schlosser
Torrelodones, February 4, 2010