When young the mouth seems
a cheerful box of birds and springs,
This is how the young man goes under a bower
or banking a river on the coast
and without ads and without even
a slight reason for laughter,
like someone says out of nowhere
the box is opened
the springs fly
the jaw locks with the abdomen
the birds and then his whole body
shakes as if hit by
the arrow of a funny satyr,
even he must stop at some tap to
drown a little the happy beak of
birds.
Who no longer sings when he appears
the first paragraph of the non-youthful hours, remember with half a grimace
that sound box and supports carelessness
her open palm over his mouth.
In the mirror he examines his jaw
and closing his eyes he tries to evoke
the day the time the place if possible
when the springs began to rust,
the day when the birds
They began to die in his mouth.