VII
From the badly stuccoed walls of twilight
the oil, the kitchens of the poor houses,
the orphanage, the groomed village boys
of the stars,
life never stops coming like heavy rain
of flags and wheat.
Our glance, a fish with excellent memory
swims in the tight veins of the sky.
You love the marble, the clay, the old freedom
of the trees, all the elements and their combinations
all the geometry of the stars —
you love not to love
but to carry your love further.
You love life.
You love motion, a blind insect, an animal
from the other side of time that has lost you,
you love all the dirt path we’ve passed together.
You love man.
You love sadness, a spring that widens the contour
of lips, two gnarled, forgotten hands,
you know and love man
so that you will gather drop by drop
seed after seed
stone after stone
an act after an act
his true self
scattered amid the pollen and rivers
lost amid the furniture and movie theaters.
They run, they run with a few sobs in their embrace
to get satiated by the leftovers of the wind
to fool the cold with their rags of truth —
no I’ll never be able to see you again in every man
the fluid metal of his enclosed hands
a life overworked by life.
We must march on.
Libros Libertad 