sábado, 4 de enero de 2014



After twenty five days from my trial
Heeding how excess is expressed:
That naught is enough and the whole is redundant
And my eyelids are enough to cover the moon

And I spread my hands toward the four cardinal points
In case you come or go and in the meanwhile
For those who know a lot because they do not move
In the intense well of suffering.

At a distance still mutilating lips
All the mire of combat in gunpowder
All the stakes that endured in their time
More than the bones of those who did not see them grow

The thread is already dreaming of becoming a bridge
So that the newly born perceives it in seconds
And keeps it inside to be exposed later
When from the grass comes up the forest to protect him.

Such as the ways that the silent travel
And like a world without ways
The mother of cities that not give birth any more
And the man mentioning this place to refer only to its dust.

Another slip without fatality
Taking the height of loneliness into the heart
For compassion of the whole room
And the astonished sight of one who does not understand

The scream always painfully silenced
Of the sterile woman who spent her life caressing
The golden hair of those that were not her children
And in the midst of her wrinkles she smiles bravely at the future.

And he never found the sorrel
And he always knew that he would not 
And nothing was ever enough to understand that he was wrong
Nothing would be enough to realize that he was never right

Because for one who sails in magic
On the sea he does not free his boat
But between something that is not touched or smelt
On the resemblance itself and the idea generating it.

And a little more:

The fraternity that was denied to him
And his acceptance as changes of season is received
With the commitment of not looking back
Like a nail driven into his heart
Because for him complaint is forbidden.

The voice of a mother asking for a haven
Between thirst and a need of shelter from excess
Encircled by gestures wanting to express
Affection, roots, center and finality.

And the hollow trees that were her company
The shade of the Manu tree and the butterfly seeking passion
Stroking the cranium
In the indescribable but understandable emotion of being different.

The lover and the moon who guides him
The cherished lady and the fodder of good will
While the suspicion of a sun toward the sea
Opens a slash of bright green on an unknown rock.

The broken femur in the mind of Avicenna
Fingers that do not have more force
Reducing the trapeze artist to a vain attempt
Lifting the spectator to the level of novice.

With lye in her eyes
A closed heart
Hardened hands
Making the kiss an impossible goal.

Where the timber would not last
Because the weeping could moisten the foundation
Where the light burns and causes wounds
Because the one who pretends is not ready.

Little and meager and gleaming
Slight and thus precise
The union that was unwanted
Like a line that follows the eyes of its guide.

In pursuing understanding
That sometimes you are not yourself saying something
That when you talk is about somebody else
And if you do not judge in referring to others
You can imply something different from the reality of facts.