Fu? a wandering troubadour,
shadow on paths without souls,
my riches were those places
where I learned my songs
who showed them to me
Wanderers around their fires,
Illuminations of circuses and dogs,
where I became a transient spark
dissolved in the remote antipopes
that come out of the cicadas.
My homeland was the weather,
the harassed fields of elemental chlorophyll
and fauna in eclosion,
but it was also ash,
Wednesday of drizzles,
chewing dirty and nutritious loaf
which the ordinary outlaw shares,
risue? o and colossal,
between the warm, casual legs,
of a trained swan.
I was a wandering troubadour,
and now, after the passage of time,
I am the one who lights the fires,
who calls firefighters,
and knows the name of the spark that jumps
from the crackling towards the night,
comet of a tiny universe,
where my hand is God's,
I mean,
that of a colossally old tramp,
with your eyes on the trails,
with open memory
to the only wealth that awaits you.
To whisper? my story to a wandering troubadour,
shadow in search of souls,
to distribute them next to the occasional fires,
warm, that holds the path,
to all who dream
with a wild swan.
Only among all we can make this a better place :)