I think…
I'm looking for a word enough
get me out of here,
of these empty places
that suddenly populate
of absolute truths, of summer.
Of people and not.
Of absent children, of trips, of spontaneous deaths.
As a son who accompanies his distance with mine,
that in a chaos of clenched hands, they bleed.
With hugs that crush the bones
silences are substantiated. Talk later…
We always talk.
The words that I am looking for today
they emit the song of the butterflies that go into space.
That they travel. That are not lost.
All songs are memory, that's why I search.
Memory helps shape some future,
not to repeat, or sometimes you die trying.
I feel that certain words, or all perhaps,
they are going to meet in that space
with the furtive soul of those brief beings,
almost magical.
Almost capable of living a lifetime
in a single and so little life.
Just like words. Yes!
The space is full of words
echoes of messages already lifeless, without sound.
Silence also has words.
Moments and glances
that have nothing to do with your eyes.
Like a merry graveyard of wishes,
of iniquities and reasons,
of frustrations and sentences,
of written glances that fly between clouds
looking for other words and sometimes
they find nothing ...
Every look is a word, every word
it is a bonfire of itself.
Of anguish. Vespers and waiting.
Perhaps, spent searching. Of love.
They live with the dead words of wars,
with the living words of predation,
of hunger and misery.
That inharmonious butterfly song,
By word and look ...