Entrada al Concurso de poesía de Literatos | Compases para el tiempo y la memoria

I

Solía mirar los dibujos en las aceras
Como si yo fuera un pájaro
Y él, mi sombra.
Caminaba entre la gente con la mirada perdida
Contando líneas, pasos
cualquier cosa que pudiera contabilizarse
y así en una grieta, a veces, descubría una flor.
Cuando llegaba a casa,
impecablemente vestida,
como la dejé con el alba,
pedía un pedazo de tela con mi olor.
Nunca me era negada esa parte mía,
casi corpórea, donde guardaba mis sueños.
Tan simple era soñar…
Ahora el tiempo -a veces- se roba mi memoria
pero hay días en que miro atrás
y lo veo intacto,
esa vida sencilla, donde nunca me sentí inútil.
Esa vida en que la flor no era ajena
Ni dolía la grieta
Y me gustaba ser sombra y pájaro
porque vivía en lo alto del cielo.

_{Contenido Original (texto y fotos), por Hive account@nanixxx.}

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I
I used to look at the drawings on the sidewalks
As if I were a bird
And he, my shadow.
I walked among the people with a lost gaze
Counting lines, steps
anything that could be counted
And so in a crack, sometimes, I would discover a flower.
When I came home,
impeccably dressed,
as I left it at dawn,
I demanded a piece of cloth with my scent on it.
I was never denied that part of me,
almost corporeal, where I kept my dreams.
It was so simple to dream...
Now time somehow steals away my memory
but there are days when I look back
and see it intact,
that simple life, where I never felt useless.
That life where the flower was no stranger
Nor hurt the crack
And I liked to be shadow and bird
because I lived high in the sky.

II

They say that one can begin to live just by wishing. However, for one who is not alive, wishing, I suppose, is more than difficult. The dead only feed on silence, and life is so noisy, and desire, the prelude to a great explosion of colors.

III

One of the things I feared the most in my life.
If perhaps this is life and I'm not that gray dead man
was that infinite journey with a stranger.
Hell was asphalt
and speed, an out-of-tune instrument
that put pressure in my ears.
There was no dial.
Nothing to override that noise.
And my body began to wear out
like a bar of soap.
I was horrified that if I finally got home,
I would find neither the piece of cloth nor my smell.
If I am here today it is because I came back.
I came back from the asphalt
in fear
my body in agony
and something -for sure- was lost in that trip.

IV

{Present tense}

Who am I writing to? Who am I writing for?
It can't be you. It can't be for you.
These orphan verses, without a name
have that whiff of loneliness,
but I am grateful and I live in the laughter
in the very brief minutes we give each other.
You on my pillow like that flower
that I imagine tender and graceful and spontaneous
or me, on the pillow,
and you shadow and bird
Why is it so hard to tie up the desire?
I only see the house and the hill and the little blue walls like the sea
and I smell your hands and I look into your eyes
in which I would live forever
far from the gray, far from the asphalt.