And the fear in the voice
The dark night
Traversed by bats.
Someone who made of weariness
A routine to which he wakes
In order to thrust a harpoon
Into flesh that does not know fatigue
He stops worrying about himself
Before the surprise converges
In the conscious state
Of his most remote likeness.
Premonitions of summer
Surrounding the night
Not needing a blaze
To spread its heat.
One who does not look for details
Finds the solutions
Which are slowly accepted
Like the years in an older person.
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 near midnight
Confirms to the sleepless
That it is not passing but thinking.
The man as solace for the locust
Like the food for worms that are not 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.