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viernes, 7 de marzo de 2014

The other day



The other day

I sat with the dead
And I took their hand
To ask them
About my end.

The air, forbade
Our spoken words.

Understanding that I did not know
Not the exact place
Or the last intention
I felt able to share shattered heavens.

They wanted to know
If I learned about their lives
If something that they were
It was part of me.

The story under the light of Diana
She smiled again without vanity.

Wanting to feel I could not lie
It felt as is nothing was confessable
And absence of blame seemed excessive
Chafing some was the warm robe of comprehension

Without looking or studying each other
Measuring things from a distance
While we came closer
Word by word to each outcome.

Those who wrote
About others writings
The self-portraits
Covering tombstones.

A clock stopped in its path
Just in front of us.

Little by little the sounds returned
From the east and from west
The landscape continued changing
Until I saw your face behind the glass.