Martina is her home, it is the desire to hear her birds sing when they are only silent, it is the care that keeps Francisco and his garden always perennial. Martina is not her name, but the one she has chosen to be named: Beatriz, Beatriz, Beatriz.  

She is the darkness and the wind that never gets to heat the house, she is the smell of butter and bread, coffee and home. She is from land, from a land that supports on its back an always cold and humid forest, which saw rabbits and deer and raccoons and cacomixtles  dwell there during the weeks of eternal rains. She is her daughters and her son, who allow her  of the world but they do not reach it, they do not leave it. Martina is the sun in which our wills bow to her always just requests.  

Francisco is the Earth, he is the past that permeates his entire present, he is its axis; he is the tyrant who now sleeps, always waiting for her, also waiting for the death that caresses him but does not touch him.  She is my grandmother, the one who keeps treasures in her wardrobe and in her soul that nobody knows about and that sometimes she shares only with me. To see it, listen to it and understand it is to take a deep look in the mirror.

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Paulina Vázquez, 2019.