WATERLINE

You call to show me
your multiple wounds,
the pain caused by others,
the immoral and ignoble harm
far from your own old firm models.

I can’t embrace you,
and the world is at war.
Words are like rafts
that castaways launch
with grins and blind wishes.

And they hope the journey is short,
and they hope there is no storm.

But the sea, like life itself,
doesn’t wait or listen to complaints or excuses,
just breaks without looking twice
against the rocks.

Barefoot under the bridge pillars
I see some tears flowing down,
the murmurs of anonymous chants
towards another border.

Life is not as I used to think
and I review the rivers of ink,
the fantastic equations
engraved in the stone skin.

But the mist remains floating
wondering where Buckley went
like the names of shadows
that sail over these waters.

There as well go down
my stripped naked words,
a corps of tree discards that swim
by all means

in search of iambic pulses
where to revive, go inland

and close the eyes
– with no more script

than to forget everything – and let oneself
be carried away, open up from the root
drowned until ascending to the sun,
be the same right then or a new one.

Will the wind of your voice
reach this shore of surrender
once
in a lifetime