On the bench of a square
a man was looking at his hands,
the day was early, the head of the man
fall between his knees, I don't know what creeds he muttered.
I thought about that human custom
whose origin goes back to the first hardships,
the released cosmic and anthropological sorrows of
the race. why the hands
what does the human eye see that escapes our reason
what do you see, I wondered, the eye in the hands
that when everything is over, when the soul is
cornfield of sorrows, the eye seeks the hands
as if there was a mother
waiting for us with open arms.
when everything is desert to the man on the square bench
you have left, blessed breed, your open hands.
when the world closes
go one to know why
we stare at our own hands
as if they were two birds
strangers, strangers as if there
let's hold our hearts
and we were, in detail, studying.