The smile has eyes, faraway traces where time murmurs

Saturday, March 5, 2016

The smile has eyes, faraway traces where time murmurs, where dreams flower and gazes hide themselves behind a yellow crystal. It places on the wall of the room a stale idol, surrounded by light flowers, blue candles and cheap incense.  A light comes and goes, climbs the hill and returns again to the abyss at times.  Born again from the dark silence, from the rustic and stupid verses, from the voices that call and never touch the soul, from the anguished tears of a child who mourns his hunger in silence, and whose supplications never reach the sky.  A point.  A pause.  A going-over of the mystery in your smooth and fresh lips.  The breeze arrives suddenly; it brings rustic memories and the missions of the dead.  The light turns pale in my dreams.  The apron of absurd voices hangs thinly from the roof.  The verses don’t grow, they lose criticism and form, they weep with white tears, and they are lost again in the tepidness of your clear eyes.