not many years ago
passing my hand over my head
dark hair
slipped under
as if it were a stampede of bulls
and the years of looking like my father
they were in a future day that would never come
or it would take millions of years to sound the
knocker of my body,
however, almost ahead of schedule,
I look at my hands and accept without fraud or scandal
which are certainly not
the hands of that boy who gathered snails
in the sands of the sea,
the ideas
that have also changed over time
they color the not so dark plumage of my hair with
plenty of samples of days and nights
that have not happened in vain.
it is at least a joy to have come this far
with the fish of poetry always screaming
give me sea! give me sea!
there is a kind of vigorous weariness in this life
and love, children, the lights of the world
everything flashes, everything pokes the snow of the soul,
while above the bulls turn white
and hands squeeze a pair of throbbing temples
like the heart of a hungry animal.