Once the year's ended,
I proceed to pick up
my new things,
I proceed to demand
old papers,
I make the rounds of
friendly chats for
the retelling of
my 365 past days:
It all went so quickly,
there was not time for the harvest,
nor for planting wheat
in the cornfields.
The days flew raucously,
I was seated
reading
or sometimes
writing
until night.
I was not afraid
of death,
I could not plant
love
as I wanted,
I picked some
fallen fruit
and I knew that
finally I would die
some afternoon
among birds
and trees.
I am not dead.
However,
between one afternoon
and another
when the puffs
of silence
hum,
I open my heart
to the scheme
of wind
and the word,
and I build
houses,
lands,
seas,
new dawns,
new sadness,
and I finally fall silent.
(as always
remembering and
remembering).
El viaje