The smell of coconut flowers
The hysterical song of cicadas
And the truck transporting water melons.
The nearness would scare him
On his neck he will only receive a stroke
The enormous weight of the almanac already old
That during the morning will sing in desperation.
Trying a smile
His old shield
But he must admit the turpitude
The slow expression that was previously fast.
The gifts will hurt him
For those who didn’t know patience
And it will be a little more difficult
Breathing air without stopping.
Unless he abandons
Both departure and arrival
Letting it be done by persistence
Like the clay that gives in before of the potter
Leaving aside all the names
But writing all of them
Like pins on photographs
Like snow on other planets
To cross their mirrors
Naming each meter of way
Reciting on each step of the stairs
Freeing and not subjecting
According to what is narrating
While looking another world
As if the things were outside
And not sunk inside.
But nobody bets on his game
Where there is only one edge
But it seems to be eternal
As the one who created it.