Letter to Ithaca
I am a short unadaptable poem
written by the pollen of barren days
thankfulness is
at the depth of words
it matures the mistakes of youth
the defenceless innocence
I have no time for the people around me
close rain will take away
the fleeting signs of the senses
come, then, lie next to me
on the earth of illusions
passing riddles
we’ll meet for the first and last time
we’ll look at the ancient light
we won’t have anything to say
for the thirst that pushed us here,
our days will say,
‘Our time existed in the flash of a lightning bolt’
Libros Libertad 