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That is a mystery?

sometimes we get bored and I say
how can that happen to us?
there is no sea? no wind? Are there no insects one can follow with one's gaze?
Didn't the universe give us, without doing anything,
Elvis' wonderful music? isn't there one anywhere
library with Dickinson's verses, with Onetti's prose?
If I look at the sky, any branch, isn't there a bird?
do we know how to make a bird? Does your complex gibberish of organs in
suspense, the delicate bloodline that stirs and beats its
heart that is a mystery?
we feel bored, full, overwhelmed... and the wind?
Have we ever stopped at its invisible transcendence?
we listen if we hear an argument behind the window,
a stupid fight that tomorrow will be nothing, we rejoice in the
soul in vulgar quarrels that will be justly chewed
by the fierce teeth of time why don't we listen
to hear the exotic and mystical meow of a cat? why not
Do we try to decipher its symbology of centuries buried in the history of his body? If instead of gossip we talked about
Beckett, of Machado, of Sor Juana.
sometimes we get bored and yet we dare to leave
this marvelous setting without having given us Mozart,
without falling madly in love with du Pré, with the hands that pluck
the cotton with which we dress, the carrot with which we feed ourselves. worshiping false idols that only show
their watches, their mansions, their cars, and we don't even know the name
of the woman and man who roll up their sleeves to mix the pot stew that will feed a neighborhood.
we admire the tight and uncomfortable foot under a shoe made in workshops where there is no other god than sadness,
and we despise the bare foot that is the work of God or whatever you want to call it.
we turn on the television instead of smashing it against the sidewalk: how many monsters would crawl out of there in the indigence of the absence of ideas, of the anomie of beauty?
we are bored on a planet that floats in the immensity of the
unknown, we gaze with bovine eyes at stained glass windows displaying the
Inequality pornography and a star seems to us the thing
least technological in the world when you don't really need
neither a charger nor a plug to shine forever.
we get bored and we put names to love.
we get bored and kill because even crime is the lack of
an aesthetic look at life: how is it capable of killing a
person who is in love with a river? he doesn't have fucking time
to go around hating nothing!
we are bored and we don't know how to play the piano,
we are bored and we don't know how or why the fly flies,
why does the fish swim? Why every time the night falls
Do you feel the spirit coming into your house? why the voice of
What we love makes our leg bones tremble?
we are bored and we think everything, we are all wise,
we all have the truth, we all already went, we were and came back;
however, naked in front of time we don't know how
we reached old age without even knowing why we were left so alone, so uneven, so absent of dreams and convictions.
Isn't it time to take off the bow from your heart and add a bit of Bach, an oil painting by Monet, a crushing hug to the sad, to the
melancholic, who doesn't know how the hell he's going to pay the
I don't want to leave here, from this theater, being an ungrateful wretch. I urgently need to stop seeing my belly button
because I'm missing the clouds, which are a miracle,
I am missing the exact and melodious sound of
my breathing.
We're bored and we blame everyone
We look for the noise and the fast spectacle of the light cameras,
and we are left at the end of the day as empty as before.
What did I bring into the world and what outfit will I leave it with?
what is all this metaphysics of non-existence that we shelter ourselves with?
sitting down to look at the sky is the least we can do to
deserve silence
Eye, I don't know anything, that's why I drink like water everything that I
I find, if even the shadow of a dog makes me cry
astonishment. I don't know anything, I don't know how to make a button or a reed
to fish, that's why I admire so much the work of each human,
if sometimes I stand still savoring the weight of my own saliva, which is today and will not be tomorrow, which is today this miracle
and it will not be tomorrow.

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A veces leo.

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