Who’s Coming?
One night goes down your hair
or is it the night that tosses its hair around
in front of the mirror of its emptiness,
the dusty glass of its darkness?
Who’s coming?
An angel dressed in wintery clothes
feeling cold amid the forest of stars.
Who’s coming?
The guileless Jesus who believed in the miracle
and became an idol on the heavenly stage.
Crazy telephones ring from the beyond,
hello, hello, no one answers,
everything is deserted tonight
things in their unconscious frozen sleep
indifferent lamps spray their light from above
and the people under the soil:
suckling on the drugs of their fears
opening inexistent stoas further away
looking at everything with blind eyes.
And your hair is made of dirty air
and you are unborn in the galaxy of time.
And these, and the others molten
in the inhumane sensitivity of the poet.
Libros Libertad 