And the fear in the voice
The dark night
Traversed by bats.
Someone who made of weariness
The routine to which he wakes
In order to thrust a harpoon
Into flesh that doesn’t know fatigue
He stops worrying about himself
Before the surprise to converge
In the conscious state
That is of his most remote likeness.
Premonitions of summer
Surrounding the night
Not needing a blaze
To spread its heat.
One who doesn’t look for details
To the solutions found
They are slowly accepted
Like an elder his years.
One who smiles calmly
Because he cried before
Like one who runs faster
Because he recovered his legs.
The course that each one follows
Accumulating what it will yield
While it measuring for itself
The impossibility of capturing a horizon
Like the siren of an ambulance
That at a quarter to midnight
Confirms to the sleepless
That it isn’t passing but thinking.
The man as solace for the locust
Like the food for worms that aren’t silkworms
Transforming the noose into a rope
Onto which they will hold trying to avoid the abyss
The same that will be held in an attempt to rise.