I'm thinking of prose poems. I'm thinking in English about them, prose poems. I'm thinking of how I had never heard of them, for so long. I'm thinking of how a sentence sometimes pops on my mind, after seeing a leaf of uncommon, unthinkable, shape or of some more banal shape, like a heart. Or when a sentence comes to mind because I've been worrying, reflecting wondering and pondering about something in life. I'm thinking of how what I see or think comes back to me in a specific language. I'm a translator. I'm always here and there. And that is that. That is how it is. And the rest follows. The language chosen by the thought. The thought leading the language. The language flowing the thought. A wave brushing the ocean softly, the foam... Foam? A espuma. One language fails, the thought slips into the other. One language invades the other. I'm thinking of prose poems. Three twenty nine in the morning, I've been thinking of them for hours. T...