In
the song of my anger there is an egg,
And in this egg there is my
mother, my father and my children,
And in all this there is mixed
joy and sadness, and life.
Great storms that saved me,
Beautiful
sun that betrayed me,
There is hatred in me, strong and of an
ancient date,
And as for beauty one will see later.
I have not,
in fact, become hard but striped;
If one knew how soft I have
remained deep inside.
I am gong and cotton and snow-like song,
I
say it and I am sure of it.