Seeds of the infant

And although it was in flesh
The rare conviction of which
One rule acquires the power to break another
Converting the man who possessed it

An instrument of difficult sorrow
Meanwhile the new doesn’t break the old
And of a possible pleasure
Once is able to reach its goal of expression.

The truth is debated in dimness
For the concepts acquired with a great effort
With a share of talent, predestination and will
That each one in his dark night dares to possess

While others are already riding on gigantic shoulders
Enabling the chain of those looking for truth
Dividing links between those who repeat and generate
Favoring the battle that tenses the muscles and in a lesser way the soul.

The word committed to an infant
Painting the spectacle of humanity
When it accomplishes inherently, what normally can be impossible
To build confidence simply: to comply with the purpose.

With morality as emotion
And each opposed thing as an exercise
Finding in our own prison
The limits of the cell of others.

The owner that becomes a slave of his slaves
The object that creates dependence on the subject
And the glance of one who captures the next moment
Observing the eyes of who is starting to learn.

Temptations of rage, hands still open
After assuming the extreme ease with which unfairness
Ties up and opens each moment of distraction
That cancels the necessary abstraction that would give beauty to action.

Facing the daylight, without an answer for the desired support
And the years, very scant
And the same sea for the rest of the life
And inside it is the seed of complete understanding
That will sprinkle with blood each day that is left.

–

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash