As my life goes by
I stared at the queen of tangerines as she entertained herself in smearing the afternoon with colors, thinking of nothing, absorbed in the magic of what is in its own right, what has not been prepared for a function. I was left mixing between the light that expires and the shadows that reign.
And the darkness conspired with me, got into my pores, taking advantage of the fact that the light had gone, covered my eyes, and silence my ears. And the shadows went to shake my hand to enter the den of a wounded wolf.
Then vermin and demons appeared, fears and lack of esteem, a rusty tin medal, which came from my inheritance through the umbilical cord and other goblins learned in the noisy flight.
But the shadows are not eternal and when their empire reaches the climax of dawn, the light surprises them indecisive and disoriented. Little by little they lose ground and by midmorning, they all lie underground, piled up until the queen of tangerines drowns again in the distance.
That is how inexplicable my life is, a squirrel fleeing from hunters, a shadow crouched at the root of a sunrise, an immensity that gets into all the cracks chasing a butterfly. Echo crashing into the walls of the impossible, an old man's smile that if the rose is the petal of a flower, it turns into tears.
