That is connected to a chain
With the vigor of the conqueror
Still alive for the passion that controls him.
Appearing soon the crown as material distinctive
To cut open the skin of the temple
And making him stand out in the crowd
That he never imagined could be part
Of something that later would be called history.
In the suburbs the udders are licked
Of leprous cows crazy with thirst
For blood, pus and bile of the mornings
Under the distracted eyes of cathedrals.
In the facade of a chapel
An exasperating fire
In the dance of homosexuals
In the innocent prayer of a hermaphrodite.
The purest sentiments
Of one who bears tools ignoring its use
And the difficult understanding of the object essence
That aware silences its steps in the rain
Watching attentively when others sleep.
In the desire to return and travel other paths
The murmur of one who arrives and does not comment
What was observed in reward for his surrender
That he received for paying a price
The certainty that he could not share.
In the warmth of the skin
And the disorder of the fingers
Which cross the fringes like saws
Of a smile under the light of a lamp
As if this experience were more important than his life.
And a monitor that knows to wait
The time of the veins in tension
While nothing happens as times goes by
In which it does not yield to defeat
Because what it drives it has to feel.