was about nine. The sun was shining through the window
bristling traces of dust in the air.
return was worth the fragile doze
chest to feel the calm of things, objects that reminded
trips not undertaken
and poems in which life was mentioned in passing:
the alphabet soup in which he tried writing a few lines recognized
colorless and painless.
silence was drained on a blank paper,
and love to hate had a halo of mist.
later gave his gaze around the room. In his head
believed to be dissecting a new alphabet, words that sometimes
arising from any emotion with names or a memory
tangible and transparent
and not the cold frost of the creation of all feeling.
Writing is no longer to wander through lush forests
or sink in very deep flaws, and knows that the lives begun
no longer matter,
drafts and mirages of ambushes and darkness
when living at the expense of a pain that filtered
to make your eyes weep or to mourn squeezed more.
Now note the mechanism that encourages the heart and can leave
warm postponed
as a black box that is activated at will.
has to give pleasure to know kill your monsters inside, but also
resurrect in the middle of a poem. The animal
asleep and corrupt fruit
have so little blood as a humble tavern.
has always known: that day in which he set fire to their old roles
to begin filling other incandescent clouds
tight
landscapes were the happiest. They numbed her death. _____________________________________________________
0 comments:
Post a Comment