Having chosen you for being impossible
Among ten thousand impossibilities
Kissing once and again the ashes
To make my lips of flesh able
To the savor of the skin containing your soul
I ask again with the concept of demanding
The truce that implies the end of all of them:
The babbling of the lost paradise
The literature of hell so much described
And to see you calm when you think on me.
But I am who says
And they allege me a trap
And they attribute me the emotion
And what they leave me is what I am
The living body painting dawns in its mind.
Then, the smells don’t have meaning
The obstacles aren’t worthwhile
There is something that costs more than their value
And although unfairness was breathed
It isn’t its denial but its rejection what inspires.
Teasing with little stones to the closed window
Behind which not only your body sleeps
And ignoring, the infinite pretends your desires
But also, although it is never believed,
Concedes a break to who will end timely.
But it passes, as everybody knows
Because one who dies doesn’t speak
Nor lives who doesn’t express
And because pretending everything
It’s nothing more than an inherited claim.
Because in the slackest ropes
There isn’t lack of hands able to support
But the almost high desire abounds
Of each foot that wants to be what it wants
As if the intentions were enough
Of which, it’s known, nobody wants to speak.