…the face of glory
repairs the wheel stone
in the blaze of white fires,
shoulders raised to the height of summer,
the face of glory is revealed
in the form of a soaring bird.
I tell myself,
the smooth running of the wheel
is more commendable
than the volatile flight.
And there it comes
the Age
on the thin thread of midnight,
in the middle of life
and in the heart of singing.
The young winter
catches up with me,
he has difficulty breathing,
the young winter,
a friend of blue hospitals and trolleybuses,
at half past six,
a bottle of milk, coffee and tea,
together with the impossible and the flu.
The wet winter squeezes me, holds me in his arms
I relive with it what there has been
I see the window, the pine, the fountain,
a girl’s footsteps next to the rails,
newspaper clippings,
the light summer drift of the river,
hills, erosion
and slopes,
waterfalls,
repeating scenes.
Libros Libertad 