Full of the smell of storms
Strong and wild
Just like the heart of a continent
And comes to my dark terrace
To bring me a message from the sun
The din of the cicadas
And the heat that tries to consume the air
I will remember the last one
And I will play to envision the following
And I will think on their names
And the measure in which they were or weren’t.
I will add and subtract to find the truth
I won’t consider the results
I will support the chosen as if it were winter
As if only incomplete searches complement.
But, it’s at the front, it is literature
Here, where the finger touches furniture
Where the name of the addressee is decided
The windows are still closed
The game is short, the work is long
The promises make them to stretch
It was learned the push
And the sense hurts in its light and shade.
It remains to be seen what is left
To see how far the muscles extend
And how far the mind understands
In one, two or three pages
What will they say of Antioquia and Ispahan?
As one says about the door
Referring to what happens after passing through it
Crossing the air with the vision.
And each thing, in detail or not
In a wheel that wants to be of fire
And that in its slope finds the reason of persistence
Perceiving more than fire, the warmth during summer.