Eva Rocío Knihy

The fragility of certainties gathers sleepless nights, pillows of weeping and brokenness, walks on the shore of a sea of tide and gall... A journey through feelings of full lives, mirrors of hollow souls, of warm essences, of rains that penetrate not only the skin... Reflection of iron hearts, of butterflies of clay, of swords of incense...of forged shields without their armor... Streets of uncertain shelters, of supposed manners, of vain daggers, that only diminish this emergence even more... For what are we but the subtlety of our certainties, those that we discover, those that haunt us, the only ones that make us live and grow? We are all that, we are warm waves from yesterday...