Pero ahora bien poco importa
el mal tiempo
porque se ha muerto.
El sol insistía, la luna rastreaba, el aire,
los coches, la gente, las horas, las caricias,
todo pasaba siseando y preguntándose:
Cuánto tiempo será necesario mirar por la ventana
para que la idea espantada tome coraje y
se pose,
se pose,
cuánto más habrá que esperar hasta que se detenga
la absurda sucesión, inconexa, de hechos y palabras
propias
propias
a los que por momentos histérica
e inútilmente
e inútilmente
quisiéramos endosar con la responsabilidad
y la culpa.
Cuánto trecho habrá desde acá
al llanto del tintero pendiente
para ser abierto por fin
y vertidas
las breves dosis saladas sobre otra generación,
otras caras y circunstancias caídas
por alguna razón entonces
inaccesible en la úlcera abierta
de la esperanza trunca.
Quién vendrá a separarnos los dedos trabados
en lucha por arrancarse y consolarse.
Cuándo acabará la mirada ciega,
vertical y obstinada
sobre los nudillos inocentes.
Qué apartará los omóplatos
que todavía cubren la espina árida
devolviéndole
al pecho asfixiado
su antigua
forma.
Cómo separar muslos
y antebrazos encajados, siameses,
y hacerles entender al desamparo y al egoísmo
que
no
es
el momento ni el sitio y que
no hay vacantes.
Cuánto más durará este día
y hasta cuándo
el mal tiempo.
Epitaph
But right now it does not matter
bad weather
because is dead.
The sun insisted, the moon tracked, the air,
cars, people, hours and caresses,
all,
hissing passed, wondering.
How long will need to look out the window
for the idea frightened to take courage
and pose,
how much more will have to wait until stops
the absurd succession of disjointed facts
and own words
to which at times hysterical and uselessly
we would like to endorse the responsibility
and guilt.
How much distance from this now
to the crying inkwell slope
to be finally opened
and discharged
salty brief dose on different generation
other faces and circumstances falls
for any reason then
inaccessible to open ulcer
of hope truncated.
Who will come to separate the ten fingers locked
and started fighting for comfort.
When will end the blind eyes,
Vertical and stubborn
over the knuckles innocent.
What shall separate the shoulder blades
which still cover the adir spine
returning
the breast smothered
its old
shape.
How to separate the thighs
of embedded forearms, Siamese,
and make them understand the helplessness and selfishness
that
is
not
the time nor the place and that
there are no vacancies.
How much will last this day
and even when
bad weather.
Epitaph
But right now it does not matter
bad weather
because is dead.
The sun insisted, the moon tracked, the air,
cars, people, hours and caresses,
all,
hissing passed, wondering.
How long will need to look out the window
for the idea frightened to take courage
and pose,
how much more will have to wait until stops
the absurd succession of disjointed facts
and own words
to which at times hysterical and uselessly
we would like to endorse the responsibility
and guilt.
How much distance from this now
to the crying inkwell slope
to be finally opened
and discharged
salty brief dose on different generation
other faces and circumstances falls
for any reason then
inaccessible to open ulcer
of hope truncated.
Who will come to separate the ten fingers locked
and started fighting for comfort.
When will end the blind eyes,
Vertical and stubborn
over the knuckles innocent.
What shall separate the shoulder blades
which still cover the adir spine
returning
the breast smothered
its old
shape.
How to separate the thighs
of embedded forearms, Siamese,
and make them understand the helplessness and selfishness
that
is
not
the time nor the place and that
there are no vacancies.
How much will last this day
and even when
bad weather.
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