It's cold winter night
mist and shadows,
my fingers don't respond
to thought, to dictation
from words to feelings
suddenly arisen.
In the buzz of the wind
the concert is confused
cricket monotone...
distant as a vague memory.
Behind the imaginary line
the sun illuminates the cities
of my dreams, the streets
that the shadows walk
of my steps, the sound of
bells in insolence
from my childhood, now they chime together
in the cathedrals of the world.
infinite memories
intertwine in the universe
of the memory.
galloping kites
in the wind, the rivers in the streets
with their paper boats
docking at ports
built of stones,
in the blue dreams of children
engineers .
I stop to think about the clearing
dark of time
In the white photographs
and black, that now they put us
to think. what color would it be
that shirt tailored to the navel
shorts or dress
from mom? Or the shoes that don't
you liked them but they were the only ones
what did you have.
! As time goes !
You close your eyes and wake up
with a collection of faces
in the mirror, paths on the forehead
and a descendant to whom power
tell them under the moonlight
the shadow of a tree or the shimmering
of the stars, to where you raised
your kites, or the wishes, that your
paper boats will run aground
on the beach of an imaginary ocean.
Now I write and dream like a child
while my hand slowly obeys
to the reality of my years.