I was always scared of breaking the tile.
Let the fragile soil of reality break.
As if the madness were
far from sanity.
No way,
so that the steps do not make me descend to hell,
I lie still on the ground
that sinks to the end.
The sheets remained intact,
of the bedroom in which we loved each other.
Dreams do not bare any bed,
at most they wrinkle the mattress.
I'll leave your photo
on the table with a forbidden drawer,
until perhaps my spirit will be.
It will not be my living hand,
the one that caresses you,
nor my lips those who kiss,
your footprint on the paper.
I'll bury myself beyond the fence,
the one I never jumped.
Behind the wire fence I forged to protect me from time.
They will give me a grave.
Without grounding me.
I already immersed myself
alone in doubt
and shelter me with fears, to cover myself with security,
that only grants death.
What is time
No. We will not return to dust,
nor to the houses
where we live
nor to the patios
Where we play.
To the street where to meet
it was a game.
This place
will be anyone
one more
where the sparrows will settle
under the warm april sun
and the new water of the river
will no longer remember
when we played
to be eternal.