What brings you back to these rough mountain ways?
As if they were broken glass
It passed as a passing thought after a daydream
no matter what you do, you will not regain those days
today will be a smile in tomorrow’s shattered moments
Laugh with the naked tragedies
all they have is a friendly heart and short hands full of giving
but now all that covers the spaces are cheating masks,
Inflated words,
and moist tongues that no net can catch
What brings you back to the clear springs under the tents of purity?
today it has become a ruin and deaf prisons have been built on it
talk to yourself away from all the crowds
that you have placed your hand in the hand of the shadows of the white days
without caring about death
looking far away at the trampling hooves of the horses of fate
where are you going? you do not know who the arrows of eternity will hit?
who will give the messages of the messenger?
In every circle of existence, a voice is heard and a law of speech is seen
all has been written on the blackboard of schools that have no windows
then it fades and is written in trembling handwriting in its place:
The last lesson.. rest… then return to the empty house of Ontology
sometimes an area lies outside the theories of mathematics
the result will be at odds and not surrounded by rules
Then mass suicide in the style of (Jones town)
covers the angle of vision in horizons..
where do you want to look, to see?
Knowing the time and coming of the terrain of change?
The word that is like the light of a mirror
Collides with the wall of a street full of slogans
the source of the light is unknown, where is it emanating?
a sign of the coming of the fifth season or a coalescence of scattered parts?
It is not easy to curb its impulses
It cannot be bought with a handful of shiny dirt!
break something from the ice of that rock, hard-hearted..
to see a free continent not far away, like dawn, just a few steps away
Throw a rope into the well of oblivion
how many sad smiles await inside it for the twilight of happiness?
look where the top of the peak is broken
In what red cloth is the undelivered message buried?
What a darkness for the alley of poetry
can it pass through the eye of this needle?
The preacher passes by with the drum of consciousness
Looking for the stem of a severed pen
a hand with two fingers for a word
a broken neck for a loud call
On the edge of the sunset of this wounded age
Who wipes the dirt from the face of tears?
what if Aristotle had not asked all these questions?
and all this bottle had not broken in Socrates’ head?
Sit for a moment at the station of harmony
you will see the traces of the footsteps on the dusty line of thought
they will take you to the valley ways and the rugged slopes
this time take another path from there
Look at the notebook of the sunrise caravan when will it arrive?
there are torn shoes scattered
waiting for the feet
a long time away
