Never thought I´d slowly grow drained
of seeing the hazy lights of this bright city,
after having pondered between two gateways.
All this time, I eluded the lamentable passersby,
minding to always repel away the plane ticket.
Under the whispering, unmoving silent stars,
which twinkled away my adulterous laments,
I packed my regretful depart into a bag of misery.
That night, I walked under dazzling, luminous light,
wondering where the wind shall push me aside.
After having wasted the ticking of time´s arms,
I woke up; pinched by pointy, pristine grass.
I was bounded outside a dreaming house of intellect.
I was bounded by a grandiose garden.
Interrupting my stillness of solitude,
a stone man accompanied me,
bent with an atlas pryingly weighing his back.
He looks at me like I´m an open book,
and whispers in my ear like the sea:
Those tears will become prose
over the years. Keep wetting your face,
for these mistakes will no longer be aching
your gaping heart.
And I take with me my laments.
I leave this city with my regrets.
And I pack away my voice,
and the chanting, warm air.
And I draw into a firing canvas
the moon, the river, the street
and I pack the picture of a window
and a tower reaching higher I ever did.
I pack my tears, and I unpack them.
And I dry my face, and I step into new arms.
There´s satisfaction in this new air,
not erasing my fresh steps in its ground.