not many years ago
passing my hand over my head
dark hair
slipped under
as if it were a bull stampede
and the years of looking like my father
they were in a future day that would never come
or it would take millions of years to sound the
knocker of my body,
however, almost ahead of schedule,
I look at my hands and I accept without fraud or scandal
which are certainly no longer
the hands of that child who gathered snails
in the sands of the sea,
the ideas
which have also changed over time
color the not so dark plumage of my hair with
abundant samples of days and nights
that they have not happened in vain.
It is at least a joy to have come this far
with the fish of poetry always screaming
give me sea! give me sea!
there is a kind of vigorous weariness in this life
and love, children, the lights of the world
everything blinks, everything rummages through the snow of the soul,
while above the bulls turn white
and the hands squeeze a pair of throbbing temples
like the heart of a hungry animal.