Running in different beds
The first country of lovers
Examining the ends, all of them
To see what happened.
Not seeing anything that could be called different
I only saw, that in repetition details attain significance
And as times goes by, they lose importance
For the weight of routine without discipline produces tedium.
Becoming sad when in spite of the great effort invested
Like an athlete that in one jump can reach the moon
Without ever stopping to think even if it was so beautiful
And not like knees that obediently bend and unbend.
All the weight of “the present” is supported by organs
As a consequence of the effort performed
Falling on the chest of someone who believes he commands
And so afterwards, soul and muscles are aching or worn.
I feel that is more than I saw
Although I have never witnessed it before
And knowing that it is vain to pretend
I remain silent because each one is eternal and can not be two.
In the limits that never explain anything
Because their mission is to indicate the brink
Of those who are always running and end being mutilated
But when skipping them they allow us to see their past intensity.
After pity there is a cruel laugh
As the most precious object fades
Imagined by someone who sees?
A little more, of a detail showing you did not do it.
Nothing changes; all of them are contention walls
And you twist and you turn confirming that everything is true
With certainty that it could not have been like an engine
That roars and reaches an intense sound when it can not find the way.
The shadow of the crucifix on the wall
The smoke of cigarettes and full cups
The murmur so tenuous and so voracious
And the book and the sword making a sign when logic comes.