closing their eyes I can almost smell the aroma
of
dandelions covering my hands,
prick
nose and wrists, and the tip of fingers.
At the time of my life
was my only family history and I
full member
right of a club that love
exceeded the speed of light and sound.
Barefoot in the afternoon, I was always looking for something
important
(clover, rabbits,
treasure hidden by pirates ...)
chasing the trail of a future
that I resisted, and always ended
compared with a
fences
raised the same year in which I was born.
Here and now the wind brings the smell of that barbecue
,
and the sweat of my father
waving his arms over the grill, preparing the burgers
I would swallow after so much effort,
tired of my adventures as a pilot
or astronaut, or Superman.
When my mother screaming "it's bedtime," I obeyed with the same languor
of those days when the nights
imitated
speed syrup in the mouth of a patient-
so intense that I can still taste it
on my tongue when it rains.
And if I open my eyes, I'm sure what would
reflected in the mirror:
me with a dandelion in his hand, his face smeared
sand teen
an alphabet of syllables and the blind stolen
hope to continue to live another thousand years
in a world that always threatens to be extinguished forever
and stop time. ____________________
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