In remembrance for Oscar Castro
I will not speak about griefs today.
I will say that time is dawning
and the bulrush of the riverside waves again
over the trembling surface of the water.
From one side to another terse insects
are buzzing in winged messages
with imprecise destiny and unscheduled.
It's the foamed delight time
skirting the lips in sweet tastes.
Time lengthens, and sun stretches,
says my name as a litany
snoozing in the afternoon warmth.
And blows its joy upon the land once again.
Where are the griefs that only yesterday
opened deep paths of hopelessness?
Where the sorrows that day by day
hold for me the endless months of routine
that never dies?
Their embers are fading, stubborn,
dying, there where they seared
my soul, unaware of its fierce,
exhausting claw, terrifying.
I know. A brief breeze would be enough
to raise the ashes and stir
its red-hot flames: so feeble
is the heart of the convalescing one.
But I look out from my window, in the distance,
and the sweet agony falls back before the landscape
of my eyes opened at the world, returned
to the things that grows, powerful
and crackling of songs and hopes.
What if love didn't sprout
where I put the caress full of fondness?
What if the gale of passion
was stronger than the faith of my soul?
I embrace love again, relentless,
beyond the gesture or the word
that never comes.
And I touch, stealthy, the back of the friend
that walks away and leaves me, for it's time
to come back to the placid, gleaming water,
to the bulrush waving, joyful, lonesome,
on the trembling bank of the water.
