Today retracing the steps
I'm looking for a place
to sit down
to forget what already
does not come to mind
I make the effort
to remember the smells
the color of the walls
the names of things
but I don't even remember the name
my parents
I go silently inside the mountain
with that swollen river that flows through it
in infinite times
there the memory is impregnated
of cariaquito leaves
sweet guayabita
the dry trunk of an ancient saman branch
the corners of the house come
the red blocks hatched
papier mâché doors with a wooden bar
the windows made of beams
protected by fine mesh against mosquitoes
then it was enough for respect
any noise behind the door
it was an alarm
the barking of the dogs
turkey rampage
or the flapping of the chickens
all for a rabipelado or a hedgehog
the mountain came down with everything and river
it was winter
and the clouds came down to drink water from the spring
in summer we climbed the well
if the night caught us
could lower the fireball
and we had to run through the paths
I don't remember anymore
the smell of pineapples
or fallen mangoes
and the cold forest
where we baptized Marco José
I no longer remember the clear water
nor the cows far from the springs
nor the eyes of the two in the mouth
standing guard to protect the spring
everything is oblivion
because those memories
they no longer have a place
in the space
everything is memory
and that's why they call us crazy.