The first time I saw you,
I was drifting in a state of delirium—
impartial, autonomous,
a poverty estranged from even the hope
of knowing you as illusion.
The only reason to exist
was to repeat the words
you never dared to say…
the echo of your silence.
The first time I saw you,
you appeared beyond imagination—
terribly ill with yourself,
uncertain of where to arrive,
where to be born,
or why to die.
I rose from frayed versions of myself,
threadbare remnants of centuries long forgotten,
emerging on purpose
only to conceal the endless grays
that fall like April rain.
I emerged from the hands of authors
who write and then vanish,
who write and then breathe,
who write and then weep.
Authors who refuse sovereign gods,
who drink no milk before they sleep,
who surrender their titles
when ink runs dry and paper fades.
For themselves, they are only shadows—
mimes of comets without flight,
strangers to the truths
carried by every lost gust of wind,
silent before the smog of morality,
the dissonance of humanity,
the weight of a renaissance
that never belonged to them
and never will.
These authors—
poisoned by coincidence—
mirror one another,
addicted to their own reflections.
They love,
they hate,
they fall in love,
they destroy.
For them,
with them,
without them.
(friendly match with "El Atico - April 4, 2006)
