I get used to the routine
of crossing the street
with the fever of a vituperated poem,
taking the sidewalk
next to the masonry waters
makes me think of the end,
the destructive night,
when everything disappeared
because I don’t know who’s fault is,
those days without consortium,
a hand in the air
moving away from the streetcar station
and I stranded as one who only knows
loneliness.
The section ends,
I push the gate
and stepping on the dry leaves
of a strange tree
I ask-write on the wall:
What is life,
when emotions
spit in the face
and turn their indifferent backs
to weapons, to pain...?
A silence coexists
in the palpitations
such as the one sealed by Edna Iturralde
in When the Guns Fell Silent,
I think of a sad childhood,
in the misfortune that comes to my days,
I throw myself to the ground,
I have faith that the war will forgive me,
that I will take my pen in the twilight,
I will light a lamp
and at the precise moment
I open my notebook,
fireworks will fly
and the coat hangers in the closet
will be like a flute
or violin for my concert.
YOU ARE READING
When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
