The air promised me things
Of battles that would become history
And an endless daily life for the one who experiences it.
Although, nothing happens so fast
And memory is what delays speed
Because there is no urgency in what already happened
Or reluctance, as for having existed there is no more.
The diaphragm a little askew
By a stroke that could not be avoided
The sight always fixed and deep
For having learned to remain defensive.
In the distinction of verses
And the one who writes them
Conception consists on the message
That in the space is still an idea
When not allowing provocation but defeating it
And avoiding to see the face of conquered rising his shield
To show the wall behind which comfortably you dwell
In the middle of a road toward yourself
And then you say, I am sorry, I am very sorry
Nothing spins around me
As I do not spin around anything
Because there is no center or orbit.
Free in bare skin
And absence of fatuities
Like a constant impulse
A primitive altar in a devastated land.
And in the books, the one you bought
They are as known almanacs
Where everything is inferred
Transformed on strings ready to hang.
Eight candles lit and not seven
Which without shining are radiating reflected images
And from all things possible
They fashion a proof and a sign
Serving as a shelter to ordinary things.