Somewhere in the great unfinished wall is the door that opened that
and casts its shadow on the implacable guardian setback all your destination.
It's just a closed door on behalf of chance,
but has the color of inclement
and resembles a tombstone on which is impossible at every turn. Perhaps now
squeak with a unique melody to the ear of your past, perhaps
shine like burnished gold an idol of the ashes of farewell, perhaps
each night is about to open in the end wall of the same dream
and his midas power against your bonds as an unhappy Ulysses.
It is just a hoax,
a fable of the wind through the interstices of a false story refractions
Waste arising from oblivion when it borders on nostalgia. That door
not open to any return;
mold bears no intact under the pale ray of absence.
not back then and who at the wrong end of a journey, each step
wrong mirror you
subtracted the world discovered the place where he lost the key and exchanged for a confusing name, the slogan.
Does each step you took did not change, as in a chess
the secret relationship of the parts that mapped the whole game?
Stay away then with your gift of scorched earth, your chest
embers turned into stones of atonement
do not turn your other precarious wilderness havens in exile,
it also also be one day the wall and longing. That door is
lead sentence, not question.
If you get through, find
back, one after another, the doors of your choice.
No. 14, the night drifting (1984)
0 comments:
Post a Comment