| 1 And to all the men of this land I entrust with you a sweet name that dawned with death, early this morning. Each thing has a side in the shade. I do not want to consider lost its obscured profile. The commonplace has no place in this story. If there were the missed meeting I am here, I am wherever you want to be here. The vertical that sharpens itself and so deep already, that roots now more than ever must be able to plow back the wind. 2 It is this way the story ends. It happened that you couldn't take any more. I don't know if eternity begins to bother your body -- 5 days have gone by. I don't know if your face is already crumbling in its wake. Imperative, time has positioned us for a final farewell. Don't let them stick me in the exit! I can taste the air in motion, each hope placed in the ozone, I can sift slowly through a great oblivion, beating the wind its face of dew. But I cannot add one day of life to that of its death. There, in that new connection, what things can be done that I cannot do? 3 Everything fogged up on Sunday. Thus we went, carefully to leave it with its ghosts and a black well rising from the heart into the temples. The rest have not learned how to share time -- comrade of oblivion. If I can't, Who do you want me to be? More vibration without your sound...? Your shape lost itself in this fog and, alone, I lost you. They covered it with forgetfulness of yesterday, cut in the afternoon. Even for the glowworm, the light ran out! I could not be the night to fold you in wings, not even to be a witness still in this wave. I want to know if eternity recovers, drop by drop, the well of your mouth. I want to know if the water that still drives itself between your veins will navigate with me, being river. If the solution does not present itself, Let time intervene! I will jump over any wall questioning those above by the sinister orphanhood or will I be so alone an echo that reverberates in each rock. I know that exactly nothing happens. There is a rock without dew, that does not sprout for anyone. With my weeping the antennas of the north wind do not stray one bit from their cardinal direction, my old friend. Later, simply ahead of your entrance the blood was cut with light. Your breath, your friend, the wind, ended the circumstance. Your bones, the breath and the truths you were to discover were lost. |