Home

Far from the gloomy place

of self love, and

the sense of being late

for everything, I hoped never,

never to come back

to this diamond facet where many

have been left

crying in the corners

of so many houses

bathed in the pensive

moonlight of the Peruvian Sky.

The light has gathered here,

outside the city, wherein graveyards,

and window hospitals

lie probably awake and still,

probably brooding a new vaporous

Spring amidst roots and branches, as if

wanting once again to live joyfully,

or be translated in a dream.

This lonely words, I said

to myself, seem fragile, but flexible

enough, and yet supple, like

an algarrobo tree, blooming at all times

in the night sky of a fresh September;

the shadow figures of perched birds

in the bushes

of this mellow “winter”,

always green and silent,

blaring the fateful, foggy sounds of

memories gone by; wakeful only,

and tender only, within the timeless

corridor where millions of

moments of my presence

had been blotted out

without any apparent purpose.

Many still remember their dead,

ausculting with tears every single nook

and cranny of their pain.

Anyhow, the expansive city,

once an ambiguous mixture

of joy and peace,

embraces many sons and daughters

I didn’t get to see,

myself by any chance,

new themselves to the world

I had been absent to.

Because it is mellow Winter here,

I’ve come to see once again

the pensive features of an already old youth

breathing the strange airy remains

of a once paternal home, by the enchanted

river, once filled with the shimmering silver

of waters, singing, echoing

 our voices forevermore.