10th of November/night
Winds upon winds; a window shutter claps
as if saluting the forlornness, the severed arm
of the night, the broken lamp of the moon,
the crumbs of nothing.
Where are the baskets with the grapes?
Where did they hide the summer shoes,
that good credulity, the upfront agreement?
The post office cart delayed by the wind.
Only the empty summer barrels of loneliness
roll on the roof.
The tiles break, bells tumble;
then again the clouds and the wind
and the stars that cough all night long
and the water well between two words.
You can’t see anything clearly;
the deaf child, the deaf father,
one lamp next to the other,
the coffee cup, the cigarette,
the fish-bones on the wall created by a half
completed gesture,
the blinking of the blind man’s eyes,
two sealed stars.
Don’t say anything else. A foot, ah,
a certain foot that will step on the ground
to walk, without asking, a deaf foot;
it doesn’t hear us at all, as we speak between
our teeth, pretending we don’t know anything,
pretending we can exist without saying anything.
Libros Libertad 