Some poems for Sunday morning Raquel Lanseros
INVOCATION Do not ever grow in my gut that apparent calm
called skepticism. I Flee the aftertaste
,
of cynicism, the impartiality
shrug. Create
I always believe in life I always
in the thousands of infinite possibilities. Engáñenme
the siren songs of my soul always has a pinch of naive. They never seem
my skin
to the skin of a pachyderm shaken,
ice cream. I still Cry
by impossible dreams
by forbidden love for a girl fantasies shattered. I Flee
straightjacket of realism. Keep yourselves in my mouth
songs
many and very noisy and many chords.
For if they were periods of silence.
WAY TIRED
Between
chest and the bullet that looks
is the same distance between the fingers and the trigger.
Death is not measured by inches.
In the afternoon, the fog
shaped goodbye.
She stands alone beside the road. Look
the train that departs
shrinking, more and more distant
aged like a song.
can extend a hand against the western sun.
At that moment, the train will be
between two fingers.
Then think: This is the exact size
my life.
However,
know things that the train dragged away
not fit anymore between your breast and the last second
in his heart beating.
Life is a matter
can not be measured by inches.
evening is white. She keeps looking,
motionless as the time of the execution. Try
calculate the distance between herself
and best dreams.
Illusion is a river that can not be measured
hands.
Amid the platform, stopped in time,
a woman learns to leave
is a new form of
always remain somewhere.
