Yellow Papers
I was captive of a secret that I longed for, yet I was afraid to
discover
in love with the faraway lights and the old people who fell
asleep on their chairs
and often I went down to the basement and hugged the out of
order clock that had rung so many birthdays
or I stood before a mirror, “Who are you? I don’t recognize
you” I whispered (ah, and who would recognize us?)
loneliness roamed around the rooms, and here the autumn
arrived: time for revelations we once said.
Close the door and go through these yellow handwritten papers;
all our pain lies in there
which, after all, no one ever understood, not even us, almost.
Oh, evenings of my youth
when God threw all his stars over our vigil
and you, ancient sorrowful moon, we sometimes think we
hear your voice
like the voice of those who we’ll never hear again.
Libros Libertad 