having arrived is less than not having gone.
because if we don't stay
if we don't break with the faith of martyrdom
and we leave there a living word, a nest,
A hug,
the warmth, the look, the panic is useless.
have arrived to put a cloth of
ice water on the wounded forehead, having taken the
morning tea, having kissed the mouth, the hands,
to then descend the steps alone
that lead to oblivion,
to the cities where our names are wrong
where the noise of an insect comes to scare us,
having arrived is worth less than not having gone,
if we had stood crossed we would have
the excuse of the unknown, the immediate discard under
the foundation of madness.
but having been there, having been able to endure,
exist there, be the jacaranda there and then already feel the empty air.
that would have had no merit
no sense.
but we stayed, luckily, from fatigue, for the days,
for the fire you want, for the goodness you choose,
we are there, stubborn, still.