Our time
the sky of our cities
our hard nests of concrete and stone,
all our human history
from the first cry in a swamp
to the first letter that unfolded the voice
of Man, everything: boats, telephones, stones
against closed shutters, doves and hawks
courier, locomotives, telegraphs,
smartphone, ours was a story
of the word in the distance,
the dreamed ubiquity of the verb,
the parallelism of the body that does not reach
to embrace all the love that we go
harvesting along
of time and land.
And you will see, love, those birds that without wanting to
they teach
that there is no earth or dust or sky
that can prevent the scathing encounter of
the souls. Sticking together, like this, in silence
because the present body says
what the word does not reach.