It’s a stone that hurts your feet in the waters of the blue sea
or death pitch on the snake that injures and kills.
It is pure singing of angels sung in cathedrals
or perfect color coloring the whole sky.
It’s the cry of nature wanting to survive
or the death agony of dying every day.
It’s poetry born without time to write
or the whole life told with verses of unintentionally.
Word that cannot be explained
for not being able to explain.
Except when applied
with ina, to decorate yourself.
Then Cora was born
Coralina to love yourself.