Today, the planet weighs less. Just a few grams.
feel the lightness of air, in the way of heat, in the shadow of silence inhabited and rites that were not. That did not come. Do not be.
And you, over there. Where cranes are hesitant or hummingbirds. Neither the Eagles.
're being measured, weighed and recorded in a book that feeds on loneliness and fatigue. Meanwhile, blind, deaf and dumb, the incense burning in the series of six trials. In the seventh, the pitchers will break internally and be released.
horizon crystals burst into tears so that an angel had to come pick them up. Lest the night astray in the embrace of constellations impossible. Or am drowning by overspray.
And, in the twilight that is, on your skin, evening incorruptible.
Meanwhile, I'm shadow, debate and sorrow. And ground shaking.
and mourning.
Mourning ignorant, open the door and I stand in front of the mantel. The table is ready. With that rare and misleading shelter peace that becomes bound to any threat.
reigns, then, on the tablecloth, rest of things accomplished, the serenity of the observed domestic liturgies, the order of the shelves, wine and bread awaiting lurking behind canopy.
crystal glasses.
Ah, the glass ... looks amazingly Nubla. And, although the table is ready, I burn into sores that have not yet built the heart. Drift, gloomy streets of enchantment and give me a thousand tearful arcane games. Then reflect your weight in these two hours, there will be diminished along with the planet.
But I do not obey but to the intensity. And the tablecloth, so well known, as used, crumpled and blessed with champagne, now reigns in a hurry stifling leaves in its wake, burnt hearts.
Because you're not.
Because I never thought I could not be.
And less that I would be, to the detriment of your absence. This, the unspeakable. That hurts right in the center of the chest and the soles of the feet.
not mine. Not yours.
But the angels.
So today, the planet weighs less.
And the rest is not Rosa de Los Vientos.
