I close my eyes and recreate the landscape.
I thread a casaquinta and my childhood.
The children return to football
to the bow,
to wild perfumes,
to the landscaping,
to lawn care trimming,
To the races,
to laughter and hiding,
to the refuge of something.
The green carpet, so green,
and the eyes that remain closed.
The padded grass, so fresh,
But I'll have to open my eyes.
Everything vanishes because it is foreign;
but remains the same,
the stolen,
the memory.
I feel pleasure and pain at the same time.
The joy wielded does not belong to me.
Twice I visited that casaquinta
hidden among the trees.
memory retained that
like something alive in the chest.
retained the experience
like something impossible
unavoidably foreign.