When I had finally managed to convince the fire to retreat into the safe,
folded like a handkerchief protecting the pearl of its memories in a raging,
and contained sea of flames; and the hearts and their lucky numbers had gathered
into their decks to cease playing their games, and the house and the air trapped behind the windows
no longer yearned to conquer the horizons, and I had decided to plant gardens beneath
the earth, and I was at peace with the unexpected and surprising mood of solitude.
You knock, not on the door of my house, but on the doors of things, and names and documents that say nothing about me. You knock on my chest in the middle of the night, shattering the tranquility of the dim lights
and the imperceptible cold that had settled in the rooms.
You knock confidently, impertinently, with both fists, until you force the cat to open;
because I, in the heart of the cold night, fear the icy footprints of any passerby. You seem to have walked for many nights, but I give up on asking questions,
and wonder feels like a bonfire that widens my eyes in the darkness.
I look at you with a yellow gaze, like an owl whose forest has been invaded,
its small labyrinth of cypress trees. You don’t seem to know how deep the tears one learns to build on water can be, placing faith and prayer in the wait for lotuses, and then happiness consists only of gathering reflections, of relearning one’s own name.
You inspire tenderness in me, but also anger; I explain to you that it is not easy to learn
to love the tranquility of weariness and the echo of the oldest stars, however,
your regained adolescent enthusiasm, your heart soaked in a cup of honey as if you weren’t worried that I might devour it, the vigorous butterflies that surround you,
and you all open petals, the soft dew on your cloak, and the rain under your hat treasured like a gift of ideas, make me curious and impatient for the message you bring.
The impatience of the girl who wakes in the middle of the night, stung by a dream, returns; the scent of cinnamon returns from the kitchen scraps,
and a cricket murmurs outside, drawing back the windows;
there is trust in the night once more.
I observe you closely, and suddenly the thought strikes me that perhaps you carry no written message; that perhaps everything lies in looking at you and letting my eyes revel in the delight
of old pleasures.
But what does all this mean, and this new, insistent yearning to understand the shadows and
the lights that bear your name? Is it perhaps that there is still a bell within the many temples of my soul that has not yet rung its hymn? Is it perhaps that I am called to question
love, to take steps backward in search of something lost that the records of the
night reclaim?
The glittering wings of your brow seem like fingers pointing beyond the window,
a gift of sudden paths, flashing veins of agitated hearts glimpsed
on the horizon.
I see your face, satisfied, one who has fulfilled their mission, and I understand that it is my decision whether or not to open the gift; however, you begin to fade in an iridescent flash of nostalgia.
It is my decision whether or not to open the window, and it is something I will do alone;
you have disappeared like a crater in its abyss, leaving in the place of your footprints
an impulse of birds that already sense the dawn, and the piercing rays of the sun beneath their wings.
Impactos: 0