Because fears, perhaps many
Are brief with a kind of clumsiness
As the grip or the word can be enough
To obtain the embrace and the bridge that generates it.
Without talking, about the power or history
In the car or on the porch of a cathedral
The fate of being real or that someone exists
And which occurs while life goes by
Between premonitions and known certainties.
From what we have, and since then what we await
From what we want and since then what we do
The cloth somebody makes and someone else wears
The size imagined but ignoring who will wear
And the art, achieved or not, to capture an extreme linked to the other.
There is nothing to say when every name sounds
Conveying a message that dwells in the entrails
And that you want to answer following your own desire
Going through whatever was imposed to cross
Until it reaches an extreme point where isn’t worthwhile going
But you continue going, appointing a far distance
Between the act and its continuity, the verb and its subject
Like branches that knowing they are but they didn’t choose to be
And being able to brandish a protest they refrain
Because they want, they are carried by the passion burning them.
The new return to simple things, without noise this time
The impulse of a breath that flaps for an expression
The eyes focused in the lack of necessity for explanations
The pupils set on what they pretend to disesteem
As a sterile woman, disesteems the sex of promised son.
In some street, at the end of a dark night or nap
During or after a desire daring to blossom
Deep inside a being who with his hands expresses what he is
– A suspicious intent under a more human appearance
Knowing that those who knows will have a brief stay –
Which doesn’t burst in a scream but it is perceived as the first order