Although nobody taught him
He could say “I love you” when he felt
But he learned to stop doing it
So that when he isn’t able to feel
Will not be blamed for having changed.
Then, he knew what sadness was
That in the greyest cemeteries
The willows know to be silent
As if their secrets were not burdensome
Until making their branches
It isn’t the sky what they search.
In the middle of two pans in a scale
Wanting to forget all arguments
And understanding the impossibility of escape
But each one wants to follow its own direction
Without the other be perturbed by its condition.
That sorrow awakens another sorrow
The conception more precise each time
That the hand that writes the hand
It is different if gets to be an instrument.
With plenty of assignations
And he accepted them all
Because there was no time for them
Letting to be crossed by thousand mounts
That again and again they interfered with his fidelity
Along corridors opening their way between walls
Among clouds through which red darts crossed
And from under the ground where he tried so hard
To retain a little water so that he can breathe the air.
The silence arrived for him
But he couldn’t overcome
With a direct blow inserted in his heart
And from there he is weaving its expansion
It includes the time that belongs to him.
They say that some ravens commented
Someday, all of us will be there
When the end comes.