A land happy in the breathing of its flesh, and of its bones, from which the flowers regenerate like poetry from words.
The heart of the earth smells of all smells like the flesh of men and women, like happy burbling, like weeping, like pregnancy.
The nose perceives the long-lived heartbeat of the earth as a fraternal adventure, as road and as vision.
Smell me, the earth says, because I am the cliff, the beach, the mountain range, the vegetable garden, the city. I am flexibility, madness, discontent, the invisible, obedience, I am the sleeping, the buried, vigour, delight, I am the earth.
Yes, I am the Earth, I am you, I represent you, I constitute you, I smell of your immediacy, of your hieroglyphic. I am your smell, interminable, perfect, astonishing, that coming through the depths of the centuries rises up toward the capricious stars that in the freedom of the night are reflected, furtive, in the democratic flowers.

Víctor Mira
Breitbrunn, June 2002