SNOW, A WHITE FLOWER
Sipping coffee,
smoking a cigarette,
we are occupied with the cures of diseases.
Poetry is a little preoccupation
of those who have nothing else to do.
Colorful balloons twisted by winds,
in the rampant fog.
Sunday is the day of my endeavour.
The rain has forgotten about the land
in this scorching season.
I sip words all night,
I see the sunburnt eyes of the sun,
eyes of an inexperienced judge…
And only winter
gives me the snow
resembling a white flower.
Libros Libertad 