THE BUDS
My eyes have stiffened
In the silence of the buds.
Do not stop looking at them; do not try to blink,
They will run back bewildered,
Hot in the smoke of the white summer.
You could watch them
In the reconciling taste of the rain,
In the playful step of the shiny stones
And then you could drink them,
With hasty forgetfulness,
From the wind hanged in the trees some time ago.
Libros Libertad 