prodigal
the rain repeats its existence,
monotonous, identical
Now my father and I know
there are days and there are nights that do not return,
then the rain biting the air
found us together
This rain, on the other hand, drives us away.
each fact, although fleeting, although alien
and futile, it is a creation between the two,
a new wall
every rain brings a genesis,
in other rains, apparently the same,
it was enough to name him to hear his voice,
other rains will rain, new cosmogonies will come,
and the rain will not be the same,
and my father will not be my father.
the generous hand of life
it will turn him into a bird, and perhaps into me a word
to name it.