When I turn and I come back
When summer returns
Full of the smell of storms
Strong and wild
Just like the heart of a continent
Coming with me to my dark terrace
And bringing me a message from the sun
The din of the cicadas
And also the heat that tries to consume all the air
I will keep in mind the one who was before
And I will play to envision what follows
And I will divine their names
Imagining the way they were or were not.
I will add and subtract to find the truth
Not considering the results
I will suffer the result as if it were winter
As if only incomplete searches complement.
But, art is in another place
Here, where everything is real
Where the name of the addressee is decided
Although the windows are still closed
The game is short and the work is long
But hopes stretch them
As knowledge pushes
And the feeling hurts in its light and shade.
What is left can be seen
Measuring how far the muscles extend
And how far the mind understands
In one, two or three pages
What would they say of Antioquia and Ispahan?
As one who on the threshold says
Referring to what happens after passing through it
The air in the imagination.
And each thing in detail or not
In a wheel that wants to be of fire
And in its desire finds reason of persistence
Including more warmth than fire during summer.