Quizá el temor está allí, cuando viene con esos sueños que no comprendes, se revuelven con eso de lo cotidiano que es como algo pegajoso que no te deja dormir, aunque sientas los pasos de la noche, trayendo uvas amargas, para un festín solitario, ya tienes motivos para arrugar el rostro.
Quizá no basta tu sonrisa hablando de cosas banales, pero si quieres avanzar, con tus pies quietos no podrás llegar a tocar esa piel, porque tus brazos están amarrados a ese temor que no te deja dormir, porque el país está patas arriba, porque la gente habla más de la cuenta.
Piensas en esa flor que no sembraste, pero que la vecina riega todos los días, qué importa tomarla, ella no sabe qué esa flor puede tener otros destinos.
La flor te mira y yo te miro, esperas que haya esa fuerza suficiente para arrastrar las hojas que corren por las calles, un alboroto innecesario, pero mi voz no sale, no puede dar explicaciones, solo en mis sueños.
Ella toma la flor y la envuelve entre sus dedos, me queda ese rostro grabado de lo que pudo ser. Luego se va, a lo mejor no la vuelva a ver, quizá la flor se pierda entre las hojas de un libro, quizá con el tiempo ella me vea y diga: —¿te acuerdas, —pero ya es demasiado tarde.

Maybe the fear is there when it comes to those dreams that you don't understand, it stirs with that daily thing that is like something sticky that doesn't let you sleep, even if you feel the steps of the night bringing bitter grapes, for a solitary feast, you already have reasons to wrinkle your face.

Maybe your smile is not enough, talking about banal things, but if you want to move forward, with your feet still you will not be able to touch that skin, because your arms are tied to that fear that does not let you sleep, because the country is upside down, because people talk too much.

You think of that flower that you didn't sow, but that the neighbor waters every day, what does it matter to take it, she doesn't know that flower can have other destinies.
The flower looks at you and I look at you, you hope that there is enough strength to drag the leaves that run through the streets, an unnecessary commotion, but my voice does not come out, it cannot give explanations, only in my dreams.

She takes the flower and wraps it between her fingers, I keep that engraved face of what could have been. Then she leaves, maybe I will never see her again, maybe the flower will be lost among the leaves of a book, maybe in time she will see me and say: -do you remember? -but it is already too late.