To Amaury Pérez Vidal on his 41 birthday.
It comes turning a planetary angle,
hitting the walls of infinity,
shelling the nacre of the inventory,
Violating the backwater of the prescribed.
Certain high pressures come turning,
in the warps swirls,
time mischief misplaced:
come cyclone history.
Cry old obscene, moralizing,
souls crucified in the fifties,
with tongues drowned in longing
saliveos to the sex of the nineties.
Crying children asleep, well wrapped
in the eternal illusion of getting better,
but nobody is saved from the forced foot:
you have to grow dancing with disappointments.
Raftsmen, Christmases, absolutism,
baptisms, testaments, hatred and tenderness.
Nobody knows what communism is
and that can be the fault of censorship.
Nobody knows what communism is
and that may be the result of luck.
Of all the sad and the lost
they approach by turning the little stars.
No one sees them advancing over the noise
of legal stores and proscribed ones.
The invisible system will have its price,
its border and size, its analogy.
God call some, others Trade,
but for me it is the Kingdom of Still.
Raftsmen, Christmases, absolutism,
baptisms, testaments, hatred and tenderness.
Nobody knows what communism is
and that can be the fault of censorship.
Nobody knows what communism is
and that may be the result of luck.
Only among all we can make this a better place :)