You know, you're done.
Before you could go jogging and you jogged
until the Republic of children
and then you came back as if nothing had happened,
you were really fast. in tournaments
intercollegiates always voted for your name
for the hundred meters flat,
Do you even remember how you surpassed the rest?
you gave them five, ten meters advantage
pretending to comb your curls
with an imaginary mirror. But those races
They belong to the 20th century, which was the century of
your youth, of first loves,
of the last times you went to bed
because the night always terrified you and mom
I made space for you, then the world
It was a habitable place again.
But this is not the land of the immortals,
and mom on a yellow Monday in September
died suddenly like waves die
that in the fullness of its roar seem
endless, but they end. Everything ends,
bread, love, the elasticity of the
muscles, patience, money, life.
Running the bus was that
you understood: the driver had mercy
because otherwise you would have lost
presentism. You got on the bus
like a pilgrim climbs the last step
from a Chinese temple, your tongue hung out
like a shitzu. Maybe, Peredo,
you are finished, but we are great
and we know each other: you are going to start jogging
again, you are going to reach the Repu and you are going to
come back trotting, and maybe, who tells you,
you never know, your mother may be waiting for you
with a mate in hand.