Neither clocks walk together
marking the steps of time,
nor the fingers of the hands
are the same, nor the call
face perfection.
Nor the voices of the bell towers
they are chords in the tessituras,
when they call for the angelus
in the morning, in the domes
of the world.
The cosmos, changing mystery
and arcane, distant, infinity
absolute.
And the moon with its face changes
light or shadow profiles.
I walk in the rain
I wet my adult body
in the memory of a child
I look at my face in the puddles and it ripples
in the imperfection of change.
The mirror is not a fraud
show me the design of reality
imperfect .
It is said that mathematics
are perfect and that an equation
can measure love in a kiss.
That the numbers are infinite
and that is where the imperfection lies
of the mind...not knowing where we are going.
We're on the edge of a void
seeing the depth of chaos
that dominates man.
He may be wrong
This is because... I'm a human being.
imperfect.