The hour

The continuous movement
Leaves the possibility to suggest
On a limitless end
On the eternal present.

From the road you are crossing
Since the roof you are stepping
And in the breath of a dream
That sustains ignoring who desires.

The closed doors
And the hands going to the head
The almost forgotten cup of coffee
And the true scope of desire.

When tears appear
Or when you project a smile
The dimness always changes
When the war is inside in it
Where there isn’t a possible witness.

In the briefness of the morning
The traces will always remain
That will have to push to one or other direction
To the steps then fixed in the sight
On the man who was transformed in a bird or snake.

The crowd is in calm
Because the one creating is quiet
And the sky is clear
For one who closes everything
Except the scuttle of his love.

To see if it can be proved
The soul of someone who endures
The body that carries it on
It is the idea of a scant duality.

At the time of lone hands
When it isn’t about the shelter
That the cold storm doesn’t damage
But for the feeling that there is something more than worse
That isn’t even the best, but just the edge of its sense.