|
Without finding the prelude
of the calm
my sweating temples incline,
searching for the end of the day's journey;
tired, like one lost in the contrast,
I fall silent and do not name you to the emptiness.
I am alone, sinking with their
burden,
with something that could return to my arms;
and even though they have always remained,
I continue slowly, saluting the sketch of the day.
I want all my silence
to return with its towering geraniums
and nothing to perturb the strange flowershop
where I speculate with the remains of my dreams.
They have already passed me
by
and don't want them to come back.
Oh salty summit of all that
has shipwrecked!
It is time that you leave my house
and quiet down, erasing by excursioning in the rain
the angle that you leave in your lodgings,
until you ascend to everything that is not concrete
like a flower that has died. |
