The river rises
and drag everything in its path:
stones, leaves, branches and segments
and the water turns brown
and violent, without knowing it.
I'd crawl if I tried to cross now, for example.
The river has memory, they say.
We do not.
We make oblivion our channel
and we drag, too,
the segments of our life
sometimes brown
like the river swollen.
and we forget
our channel
in the night of days.
The forgetfulness that will come, too.
And we are leaving the sides
our remains,
those that no one will claim,
Because that's what forgetting is.
Sometimes I feel the tiredness of a skinny and sad dog,
those skinny and dirty dogs that go, tongue out,
following a garbage truck without any sense,
pierced with sweat and dirt from all the roads,
perhaps because they have nothing else to do and they go,
with sick fidelity, following something intangible.
The dog's fuzzy illusion that the guy on top
or the horse that pulls the cart know that he is with them,
that he is part of the whole, and in truth he does not know it,
he doesn't know anything, he doesn't even know if they like being followed.
That's my weariness and my loneliness and my sweat and my grime
and it's all very uncomfortable. Why do I follow the car?
If I am not a horse that pulls a cart often
by a dog that is not tied to the cart and that the horse
unaware that he is following him. If I am not a man who, in the car,
leads a horse followed by a dog. if i'm not
the horse that pulls the cart that a man drives
who never cares that there is a dog following him.
What do I represent in that set, what is a skinny dog
and dirty and tired that follows a cart and horse
that pulls the cart and carries the man upstairs,
and who feeds the horse and never feeds the dog.
What is a man, what is a horse, and what is a dog
who is not tied to the car and who is not fed.
Why am I still under the cart and behind the horse
on the road, tired, sweaty, hungry,
and dirty with dirt and doubt and lack of love and forgetfulness?,
bleeding out.