Although nobody taught him
He could say “I love you” when he felt
But he learned to stop doing it
So that when he is not 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 to grow
Away from the sky.
In the middle of two pans in a scale
Wanting to forget all arguments
And understanding the impossibility of escape
As each one wants to follow its own direction
So that the other is not perturbed by in its condition
That sorrow awakens another sorrow
That understanding is more precise each time
That a hand that writes as the other which does not
Will be different for being an instrument.
With excessive recognition
Of things received
And acceptance of them all
Because there was no time for them
And allowing to be named by ten thousand mouths
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.
Wrapped in silence
But he could not overcome
A direct blow penetrating his heart
And from there weaving its expanse
Including the time that belongs to him.
They say that some crows commented
And that someday all of us will be there
When the end comes.