Calendar Pages
Who knows what will happen tomorrow, or who learned what
happened yesterday?
The years vanished here and there, in rooms, in trains, in dreams
but sometimes, as evening comes, the voice of a woman resembles
the goodbye of an age that passed
and the days missing from February, perhaps will be given to us
in heaven.
I think of the small hotels where I spent the sighs of
my youth
until at the end no one escaped; but then, where could we have gone?
And Eros is our craziness before the unfeasible that we get to know
each other.
Lord, you cheated the poets when you gave them only one world
and when I die, I would like to be buried on a pile of calendars
to take time along with me.
And perhaps whatever of us remains, let it be a little forget-me-not
by the side of the road.
Libros Libertad 