MOTHERLAND


Motherland of pearly stars
Beneath a heaven of shells
You unskin my voice 
And all I am is rumor.

I am sure my words are lost out there
Pulsing sighs and digging pains
as the wing of a miracle
Rubs my chin and fades away.

I drink the milk of death.
I crave your breast
I miss the roundness of your nipples.

Motherland of bleeding moons,
The color of sadness dreams you.
The night is a mare that eludes you
Your cold lips are a broken map.

I drink the milk of death.
I crave your breast
I am a ghost.

You slip through my hands.


*****


RISE


I will rise from these golden shores
and lay me down next to that Sleeping Giant
that green horizon that traces the distance
and I'll just lie there, 
Watching the dusty trace of flying diamonds
scratch the night
a million silences of light falling upon my body
conniving a metaphor
for the dead leaves of my beard-
just lying there,
watching the silver clouds ride the wind-
(oh, how many of them have I seen before?)-
lying there, imagining a rain of roses
imbue the belt of moon
blessing this earth I'm made of -
lying there, believing that there'll be time,
that, yes, indeed, there'll be time,
for the Giant to awake 
from his dreadful slumber
somewhere,  
under the arch that heaven,
there should be time
for freedom.


*****


SAND


A fistful of sand
Evidences to me 
That it is not only made of sand.

Crystal grains- grayish- amber- aqua- argentine-
Diminutives- ovals- amorphous- poliphormic-
reducible and reproducible-
The shape
To where the eye does not see.
And it's only a fistful of sand.
I wonder how many fistfuls
Fit into this big fistful of a beach.
The scars on its surface
Speak about flexibility:
The wheels of a tricycle-
The footprints of a walker-
The imprint of my body.
The sea transforms it all-
Absorbs it- molds it-
Hardens it- softens it-
And it will always remain the sand.

Honestly speaking,
The sand is not only sand.  


*****