Weeding paths

 

I have written so much to you, not on paper, nor with a pen. I write to you in all languages ​​and I begin in Esperanto. It is my eyes that, walking, write in time, on the walls of this tank, on the rug that surrounds him, in the cherry and in the sky, sometimes, in the vertigo of joy, sometimes I do it in the constant abyss in which I became your physical absence, and when I write you, I am in the window but not in this eye, in contemplative, and I never know if I am. I dedicate vibrating in you well being or tranquility, if you lend you magic, and I never know if the wind tells you or sings you, murmur or gets shouts that my throat shits, attacking, arcade, breaking far, if you feel, whether the dam of tears, if you feel the weeping of the desert of the lovingness you leave, or if you are. So, of this subspecies of embargo, of solitude sought, if it could ever understand, in time, a GA of chosen loneliness, which they call seclusion. In the window that is the apple of your eye, I drew a safe haven that is the temple that welcomes me. There are no ships in it, only rusty anchors, waiting for a deck, a Plutonian flag, which would have to come with Neruda and unfurled, as is also the passion that plagues me, without measure or expiration date, where a breeze quickly transforms into a storm. I rest my back against the left side of the window, raise my knees to chin height and let myself become calm with the movements, sometimes peaceful, sometimes irreverent, of external nature, through the melodic noise that the wind produces in the branches, and in the internal branches, in the veins that sustain my life, my internal peace. I descend again to another plane, in another timeline, in which I am only allowed by selective and preserved memory. You tattooed in the immensity of all lines, space and time, you greatest love, immense longing, and sometimes, only despair and woe! That are the chorus that accompanies the solemnity of your portrait, of the agitated memory that you have become, I invoke ancestors, white spirits that help me and nestle me, cosmic egg, full of the compassion that I myself, alone, do not know how to give myself. And they heal my exposed wounds, but you dig into mountains and hills, paths, shortcuts, and by digging you make yourself deeper, deeper and deeper, infinite epicenter, which is reed and deep and succulent moss and you reproduce multiplied in plains and plateaus, heather and strawberry bushes, lofty slopes and precipices, fields and paths. That your eyes are the source of my perdition, they are mountains, rocks, lakes and rivers, they are the horizon traveled, urgent metaphysical longings, of this world and the other, where shaped and clogged, silent and of absent matter, you become giant and fertile, constant and profound, and my creativity and audacity, instead of reducing you to ashes, to a photo album, make you and unmake you, liquid yeast, solid and gaseous mass of my eyes, meal of the hunger that devours me, of the thirst that suffocates me, of being resilient and incapable of forgetting you, to get you in the body and soul, and reinvent your arms in my arms, and the loose and the loose, the distance welding in the union of the devotee pilgrim, to be tied all their lives, and you made you, a country, a continent full of streets, cross, roads, ways, avenues and, like Manuel of the ornos Cem in me deposits and walls, nettles and razors, windows and by all, bridges and bagas from this rumor that you left seed, suddenly, suddenly pitying or pitying, that you have not made it to this mutant planet that invades, cell and arteries, highlights of the misery of the abundance of wanting it, to want it, to want it, to want There are a large and large, fountain and ocean, and even a finger, a lip, a hug, a wave, a poem, a unique message, a kiss, my God, a tenderness, a poet's verse, a painful, silent pain of madness, to lose the composure and the legendary oak, guard Time, lover of eternities done. I tell you, with my silent monologue, nothing and everything, since you left, like a diary printed on the skin, in the honey of the memories you left, duly polonized, faithful sowing of never being absent, only in the flesh, only in the flesh, which is dense and does not know how to eradicate feelings, change its sender, an urgent letter never delivered, sometimes silent, sometimes verbalizing, the effervescent feeling, of the legacy of the love you left me. Rumors of spring are already arriving, of calendars being changed, mimosas, mayas, camellias and rosettes are already releasing perfumes of mystery, and this longing for you, without ever spreading properly, that fertilizes amphitheatres and coliseums, pyramids, totems, catacombs and museums where silence gave birth to the cry of your present skin, of your unforgettable smile, of your body, of your lips, of your back in my arms, now limp, scarce, squalid and withering from the absence of your embraces. And you grow in me, miracle and fantasy, in whirlwinds of magic, synchronicity and geometry, grazing the ground of a spring that never ends, with carpets of dead leaves, with petals of withered roses, with all the poems you dedicated to me, with all the songs you composed, trinities and ternary measures, scapulars and mustard seeds, storms and a finger of god to keep me quiet, still, gagged in the softness of any afternoon, whether in this window or another, that my windows are your Uranian eyes, that it is through them that I measure human intentions, that your eyes are the shutters of time, when I close myself off and protect myself, when I wake up and push myself towards another day and in one day, my god, in one single day seasons of longing and decades of your absence are written, stations of recycled memories and fragments of our history that I kept and, in the concerts in which I get involved, I become fertilized by you, opening corridors in my veins, where you are oxygen and sap, where you are a scale and you octave in a note or in a thousand chords, in a rhythm and a melody and, you accompany the sobs of my crying, without ever making yourself present. That you built yourself must and nectar, sculptor, aesthete, polyglot, painter, philosopher, musician and poet and when the door closed, you went up to the window and showed me Trojan horses and troubles, traps and bayonets and red flags and choirs of old mourners and horns of malicious snakes and yet, distant, you preserved yourself intact, breaking routines and alchemies, you remained at the helm, on the long tail of the comet, in the inner square that worries me and consoles me and enraptures me. Loving like this cannot be a sin, nor is this absence a sign of the end. You remain hidden, here inside where I feel you all inside me.