Chronic anachronistic // en un truchisimo ingles // es un gustito

Often from this bed

Heaven be in that window,

so small and dirty,

where a lot of words,

living with a thousand stars,

awaiting the dawn.


Often I run the risk

walking in the morning

to take forward the wind

my bike golden

as a brave centaur

in search of his beloved.


Often the day after today

preceding the day may not arrive,

and the story not told,

shadows are full of indifferent

and the story they told us,

late in the blood of heretics.


Often the steps covering the road,

when the road goes nowhere,

and a horizon painted red

covered beaches without sea

the short-lived now, in future,

your space makes time lethal.


Often from this bed

Heaven be in that window,

questions where they die,

they always do to the soul

and just for tonight,

be a cry in the stillness.