There are times when we are, maybe!
Or else we are nothing but leaves to wander.
Vacant in the wind, exempt from the imperceptibility
of the soul that grasps by the arms the hairs of our bones
off-white bodies devoid,
spread across the skin.
There are times when we are the ones! And like the branches.
With pure and impure feelings stagnating.
Impregnated by the smell of time
which corrode our dreams by making them routine
and conformism. And smallness and adversity
and the impetuosity and gloominess
among all the apocalyptic sacral verses.
There are times when we are made. Or not!
Of shrubs in the ground far-fetched,
of air in the contaminated sky,
of stars in deep unmoved sidereal space,
of emptiness beneath the broken hearts and torn eyes,
of the existence forced to bear life.
And by the life and the means to death.
But strangely, we are never the tree.
The whole. Never, because we need to leave,
We need the patience that makes us passengers,
temporary, pushed by the hurried heavy passage
of the duration of the facts
the advent of the obligation to pass, roam between
and above all else.
I'm going Air!
I'm going to fly.
By: Aladino (10.017)
