I am the shy scribe
who walks among his verses,
listening to the song of a bird
free on the cornices,
unfastening fantasies when the light cuts through the air,
while the city resists the reflections of boredom.
I am the one who lowered the torch
from the vertical heavens,
with the round words entering offering themselves,
like needles in the eyelids,
so that all his world, imprudent,
would get tangled up with the cries of the winds.
I am the fruitful wonder
that arises like the mists
of distant landscapes.
The eye that pierces the water
and hides stars in germ when the great red moon
steals the sky’s blood and pours it into its profile.
I am the fire in the esophagus,
the ashes of the nights after the mixture of drinks.
I am the water that unifies
all the waters that sleep placidly in the ponds,
the hope of being a river,
a sea, or an ocean already lost.
I am the eternal mystery of birth and death,
the mother-father of fear,
the awareness of age,
the well of silence
from which the music of his life
rises in a bucket, abstracted in its entelechy.
I am the bend of the river
taking refuge in the shelter of the leafy trees,
tired of the journey
between systole and diastole
and strange trembling of arteries,
with the concern of the little time left.
I am the shadow that gathers all its old shadows,
the old intimate darkness,
the clouds covering the sun
without veils and without locks.
Bent by memories,
I am the return of a journey that resembles death.