angle got wings 

This is a story about finding a home, about the voices of my mom and dad, about people speaking different languages about the same thing. Like fragments from a very expensive vase, which, in fact, never existed, I collect myself on two continents, in two countries that I call home. Divided into languages, gestures, forms, traits, inclinations, attitudes and attachments, identity cannot stick together and continues to scream. 

The angle exists
when the lines meet.
when they meet
the angel loses his wings.

the angel gets wings
when the angel loses them.

Two countries
are two lines.
when they meet,
it turns out to be me.
I am the angle.