After twenty five days from my trial
Listening to express the excess:
That naught is enough and the whole is superfluous
And only with my eyelids I can cover the moon
And I spread my hands toward the four cardinal points
In case you come or go and in the meanwhile
Of what those not searching know a loot
In the intense well of suffering.
Over there, at a distance they still are riddling lips
All tideland and belligerence of gunpowder
Between the stakes that endured time
More than the bones of who didn’t 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 expose later
When from the grass comes up the forest to protect him.
Such as the ways that travels the mute
And like a world without ways
The mother of cities that not giving birth any more
And the man who mentions them refers to their dust.
Another slip and no fatality
Taking the height of loneliness into the entrails
For compassion of the whole room
And the astonished sight of one who doesn’t understand
The scream always painfully silenced
Of the sterile woman who spent her life caressing
The golden hair of those who weren’t her children
And in the midst of her wrinkles smiles bravely at the future.
And he never found the sorrel
And he always knew that he wouldn’t
And as never was enough to know that he was wrong
Nothing would be enough to realize that he was never right
Because for one who sails in magic
It isn’t on the sea where he frees his boat
But between what it isn’t touched or smelt
On the same similarity of the idea that generates it.
And a little more:
The fraternity that was denied to him
And that he accepted as it is accepted summer
And the commitment of not looking back
Like a nail inserted in his heart
For the one who is forbidden to complaint.
The voice of a mother asking for a haven
Between thirst and urgent need of shelter
Encircled by gestures wanting to express
Affection, roots, center and finality.
And the hollow of trees that were company
The shade of Manu tree and the butterfly seeking flame
Stroking the center of the cranium
The indescribable but understandable emotion of being different.
The lover and the moon who guides him
The cherished lady and the bread of good will
While the suspicion of a sun toward its sea
Opens a slash of bright emerald on a named but unknown stone.
The femur in the mind of Avicenna
Fingers that cannot reach more force
Reducing the trapeze artist to a vain attempt
Lifting the public to the level of novice observer.
With lye in the eyes
Closing the heart
The hands hardened
Making the kiss its impossible goal.
Where the timber wouldn’t resist
Because the weeping would moisten the foundation
Where the light burns and causes wounds
Because who pretends it isn’t ready.
Little and meager and gleaming
Slight and thus precise
The union that was unwanted
The tail that obeys the eyes guiding it.
In pursuing understanding
That one isn’t oneself when saying so
That when one talks is about somebody else
And in naming others, if you don’t judge
You can touch what differs from the one who names it.