Mother

Do you remember your former self
a womb
a home made of soft
distant voices?

            the first shelter for your soul
           was but echoes
           an inceptive night
           in which you discovered
           a caress left for you
                    long before you arrived

A gentle singing Mother
whose gaze
you could already feel
whose hands even then
were preparing
every known remedy
for solitude and desperation

           and I think of them know:
           How clean your hands were
           How clean they are
           even after they have lifted me
           so many times
           for so long
                  What a peaceful place
                  they have become

Her heartbeat
would call
the first name you ever had

           and she kept that secret
           unaccountable word
           for herself
           so she could
           in your despair
           whisper it throughout the World.

Many years from now

Many years from now
She will walk
leaving her footprints
on the beach
expecting the world
to wash away
her feet
her soul
everything she is

and think:
'I do not know
where memories begin
perhaps
in the first notes
of an unknown song
played against the background
of the night'

She will listen
and hear nothing
and so believe
she has been forgotten

Still
my words
unread
will be written in the sand.

Desvarío con cafeína

Te tomas un café o te imaginas que lo tomas mientras sostienes una taza de café, una taza caliente asida por su asible asa. Una taza de café y el mundo te sabe un poco amargo. Como si el mundo viniese de Kenya, de Colombia o en una bolsa de plástico y tú, que tienes las posaderas bien posadas en tu silla, necesitases que la vida supiese un poco más a helado de vainilla o fresa, a postres bañados en azúcares.

Han hecho el día con un grano muy fuerte: te has despertado con posos en la boca y legañas en la cafetera. Quizás una tostada; no, no - no se te quita esa sensación de filtro por donde ha pasado demasiada agua hirviendo.

Algo pasa, algo pasa.

Ayudar a una vieja a cruzar la calle, rescatar un gato de algún árbol, comenzar una revolución, en fin, hacer algo con significado.

De pronto llega un vientecillo y tu nata mental se va volando. Te quedas, descafeinada, con una pregunta: ¿Quién será aquel que leerá el futuro de los astros en tu fondo cuando te hayan bebido por completo?

El Arte del Engaño

"A Crono le han dado Piedra por Zeus" o "Cronus and a stoned Zeus"

by Rubens-Mundaka

A Silence

a Jo

Where were you yesterday?
Was the infinite blanket
of the Universe
wrapping you?

Was your Soul
enveloped in the clock-ticks
of the night?
of the everlasting night?