Memory
Yes, we lived, once, in the little white houses with
the whitewashed fence, the shade of the grapevine near
the lake’s song, though when we returned from faraway
we found inside the house nothing but our childhood
innocence and the hallway mirror with awkward
faces wanting to jump out and run to the streets
like wild animals. We knew none of these faces yet just
behind the door the secret we shared signalled to us
discreetly, as if it witnessed all our concealed messages,
our darkest thoughts, uncertainty and timidity of youth,
purposelessness I would say, yet since then we had known
the path we were to follow later which has led us here
before our mighty Hero.
I like those who become pneuma of virtue because only
thus they will be able to go as light as a feather over
the bridge.
Libros Libertad 