Wonder
On the ancient handwriting of the sky
prints of stars
and the vague date of our birth
hidden in the dimensions of insignificant days.
One wonders whether this is the true world
or the mind’s conniving plan
crisscrossing reflections of destiny
games of self-deception
the true death
messenger of dark passages
or the dues ex-machina
who at the last moment saves
the excuses
of postponed encounters.
One way or another my boat crosses
the pollen that keeps on falling
with its sail half unfurled
and the cloud looking other half lead me
to the unexpected
the first mover.
Libros Libertad 