There are those who walk the world
without staining your feet,
that go in and out of love
like a supermarket or a hairdresser's,
that before the sudden death of a bird
they open a yawn in the mouth of the world.
There are those who walk the time
without impregnating yourself with any perfume,
not even the slightest cardito bites their clothes
not a drop of mud falls asleep.
They're lucky, I tell myself, they've been blessed
by the god of longevity and warmth.
I'm always smelly of everything that surrounds me
I smell like pulp, horse, hunger, sex
to orange to marrow to collective to dog.
I go in and out of love like tormented
beauty, with crutches and neck brace.
There is usually more mud on my feet
than in the landscape that surrounds me.
Thistles and thorns stick to my back
and fencing of fallen leaves in the mouth.
I have been blessed by the god of the premature,
I'm gnawed and uneven, always on the edge
of the precipices There are those who walk unscathed
and pass through the frames of each door unharmed.
There are others who splinter life
hitting her gently against the stones
to find out what's inside.