From the land of rhyming couplets, I

beheld the burning, baleful eye

of an omen so beautiful,

it caused me to forget my rhyme scheme

"He aquí, un caballo pálido,"

in a field all alone,

behold, a pale horse

waiting for an angel to untie him

Beyond him was a flock of sheep,

ovejas pastando,

grazing for sunlight

in a Heavenly field

But the water was dirty,

not suited for swimming,

which affected my plans

in no way at all

And anyway,

is it even true?

Everybody now

lies to achieve

their verily

righteous,

almighty ends.

 

And even if it is,

as you say,

"contaminado,"

what business is it of yours

if I decide to go swimming in waste

while choking on paint thinner?

 

Is it not my prerogative

to live as I please?

Of course,

maybe it's just

a friend-lily warning,

a flower extended

of barbs and amigos,

a rose with a whistle,

a poem of

thistles.

 

Either way,

crazy,

had no effect

on my childless landscape,

or the overgrown

grass

whatsoever,

climbing up through

my dreams.

 

Because,

indeed,

while not looking for anything,

neither horses of the apocalypse

nor happy sheep

grazing in

Heaven,

and certainly not

in search

of a metaphor

for things

too bleak to be considered,

I found like a visible

echo

of the forgotten

joy in my

heart,

an empty

soccer field

anyway.