The afternoon consumed its then fatuous
without meat, without sin, without perhaps,
The night is like a bird
about to emigrate.
And the world is a boil of conches
fasting of pepper, laughter and salt,
and the sun is a lime in one eye
who does not know how to cry
Your back is the September sunset,
a map without reverse or reverse,
a drop of used pomace
to the disdain of the sea.
And finally the calendar and its ushers
dissecting the office of dreaming
and the spur in the corner tavern
and the vice of forgetting.
By the line of the heart
every morning derails a train.
And when you finish back to start
two hours after amancer.
Life has a liguid argument
that never stops learning,
tastes like liquor and a disheveled moon
that does not quench thirst.
The night has consumed its bottles
Leaving a hole in the wall.
The days have passed like leaves
of unread books.
Only among all we can make this a better place :)