Perhaps it isn’t about
To burn the nights
To go a few more meters
Or staying to ask
How had it been to reach what you see?
What are the next sunsets going to be like?
What will the volcano expel at its next eruption?
What does the astrologist search for on Nile River bottom?
It would have been one goal excluding others
A point from which the others
Wouldn’t lose their capability to awake the thirst
But from which haste would lose its condition.
Without succumbing to the deceit of forgiving
Or the lechery of lashing
Letting go and letting do
But passing and doing
With the marks of time on the forehead.
For a freshness in the expression
From the body until its age
Partially thawing and partially indescribable
Like a mother that didn’t know hers.
And so they are resting on the road side
That the trees learn to sleep
That each cloud memorizes the name
That was given to each child in each part of the world.
So that the leaves don’t force to search
So that the clocks lie about the hours
The bacteria commit suicide, the senate is transformed
And united can be at peace about their past.
Because it could be, it’s very possible
That immersed in the most tangible
Of a projected vision
It isn’t about burning the nights
Or moving forward in space
To stopping to ask
Who placed the mirror that we believe is reflecting us.