I come from the place
from which everybody
wants to leave.
What happens
to those who don’t leave?
They stay,
wrapped by
the warmth
of Spring.
Good weather
settles the emotions.
Deceit is
hidden
by the sunlight.
What does it feel like
to be
where everybody
wants to be?
Does deceit
replace deceit?
Hanged
is the jacket
from the day
of the disgrace.
He said
I was raising
m voice
and that there was
nothing left
to do.
On the street
it was Summer.
A real Summer.
One of those
that melt
the asphalt.
He told me
I had left
the jacket
hanging
on the chair.
The melted tar.
The heat
wouldn’t let me
go back.
Through the rain
a bird defeats
vagrancy.
Fate has no
cardinal points.
After reading,
I can’t stand
the urge
of writing
things that you don’t
understand.
The wings
of fate
have the shape
of the wind.
Birds
let themselves
be carried
away.
Your hair,
that winged creature,
makes the mortals roll
down the stairs
of oblivion.
Let them
roll down.
Only that way
can the process of
oblivion
reinitiate itself.
The blessing of
oblivion
facilitates
the existence.
The existence
of mankind
is only possible
when your hair
makes it roll
down the stairs
of oblivion.
You only live
by the rules you bend.
A pirate who navigates
the flattest of seas.
A sea so flat
that the darkest rocks
at the bottom
can be seen.
The chest of treasures
you’ve hidden
can be seen.
Open the chest,
beautiful pirate.
Let the sun reflected
on the gold and silver
illuminate the colours
on your skin.
Trapped
in the darkness
you ride
the horse of pain.
Trapped, you ride.
In the darkness, you ride.
Pain doesn’t need light.
It rides.
On my chest
an arcaic mouth
of sharp lips
opens
its sharp lips
without violence.
For violence surrenders
to the loneliness
of time.
To the cruelty
of cold and rain.
To the speed
of novelty.
You’re blinded by novelty, lapel.
But you’re obsolete.
Obsolete, like me.
Fast, lapel,
run fast.
Run the runway.
Fast as fashion.
Your hair
is a vast,
disorganised,
sometimes
even flat
extension
of your neuronal
connections.
Let loose,
freed to the wind.
I want
to touch them,
smell them.
There,
where the ideas
are born.
To where
do ideas
fly?
Where the wind
takes them,
guided
by
your hair.
Why dealing
with compatriots?
Compatriots
can be idiots.
This one
compatriot
tried to reclaim
what was his.
They laughed
to his face.
He had
neglected it,
left it
aside,
at the treacherous
mercy
of the wind
that whips
those latitudes.
There,
where the compatriots
don’t set foot,
because the wind
whips.
You turned your back.
The wind
swept your hair
and it seemed
like you were moving.
Don’t let me
read your thoughts.
The only language
I understand
is that of your hair.
Your hair speaks,
speaks,
speaks.
It speaks without
knowing.
A Brief Life 