traveled from hands to hands
and arrived here,
in an antiquity store;
a display of a turbulent past,
on yellow pages, where
a downpour of thoughts had fallen
and a roar of raging words—
after almost fifty years,
by a red price tag.
Man speaks your name like a burning anathema,
and picks up your body where
butterflies of newspapers circle above you.
The yellow sun is in your hair, the darkened color
of tamed waters.
The warm yellow sun—
The quiet yellow sun—
Your death rides a black van;
Your death, more real than life, comes at five o’clock,
in a wedding tuxedo.
The sad blue sky’s clear dusts grope their way down
toward the city,
The asphalt roads glimmer like ice.
Red lights dim, like eyes deprived of sleep,
trying to understand the great mystery of the morning.
An old man stands at an empty phone booth,
looking at his map
on which a thousand places are marked,
with no names.
His walking stick dangles on his arm,
a compass uncertain of the south, where
the sun throws a shadow.
a black cat,
jumps into an open window, the curtain tied back and knotted.
An army of houses stand vigil on the first day
of a lunar winter
No one gets up too early in this city,
even the 5 o’clock haze huddles into a ball
in the corner of an empty bus station.
I walk alone on the pebble path that leads to the hotel
and feel the sticky tongue of drunkenness
on my face.
The debauchery of the night curvets inside me.
While at first sight it gives us
a mutilated Spring,
all shades of green splash together and merge,
trying hard to bring something into form.
Like a small river in a grove where
a tender-faced nymph appeared
and walked smoothly into a pool
dreaming of her own mortality.
Silence is on the canvas but loud in the myth
preserved inside a memory.
The nymph, her nudity on the river bed,
iridescent, the color