Wedding

In the winter of his years
on a chair beside the window.
Through the cracks
the snow creeps over his feet,
buries them,
buries his waist and his neck,
and he doesn't move.

He knows
he is late for the wedding,
for all weddings.
 
 

A spark

In his poem
a trembling spark
It brushes his eyelashes,
stretches them to a horizon that recedes
In a fog it disappears
behind the dots, the commas, and the letters
 

A wish

For the hungry
            that his poem be
            bread and oil.
For the thirsty
            cool streams.
For the wandering
            home and lantern.

                  For life
                        that it be lilies and dew,
                        that it be harvest.
 

Oil lamp

Through the streambeds of darkness
through its cracks
A face always peers out,
approaches,
lights the oil lamp and whispers

His hand in mine
we head for mountain chains
and the flower of dusk.
 

Morning star

At night's end
Towards the morning star
he lifts his gaze
It spends the night alone
lighting windows.
He spends the night alone
opening windows.

Two friends
            the whole sky between them
 
 

Sadness

In his right hand, the sun ferments
In his left, the moon turns green
In his heart
            the princess of love.
And oh, this sadness,
this dark-leafed sadness.
Why?
From where?
 

A thought

Between his eyes and her tears
this suitcase, always packed
and the distances of so many journeys
            to see
            to feel the fire of poetry
                              in a foreign land
 

At the edge of the tower

The childhood that loved him:
            in the riverbeds
The woman that loved him:
            in the darkness of roots
The friends that loved him:
            in the ships of ashes
The poems that loved him:
            in the tines of the pitchfork

                  At the edge of the tower
                  alone, he stands
                  No hat, no coat
 

A garden

Fence and walls,
under the vineyards
oblivious to harm,
the guard stays awake.
            And at night
without knocking at the door
without stumbling
Autumn sneaks into the trees
fills its sacks with fruits
and hides beneath the leaves.

(A voice from the clouds)

Pray and keep watch,
no one knows
when the thief may come.
 

Siesta

Under an olive tree
at pasture's edge
a cow half asleep,
on her back a grey bird
pecking at his neck.
            In his feathers
Red Indian braids
 

Oak tree

An oak tree over his head
wiping the sweat off his brow
stretching a mat for him
so he can sleep

In the morning it pulls off the blanket
He goes to his field,
he becomes the sickle and the plough.

And tomorrow 
when he does not return
it dons its mourning clothes
drapes its hair with fog.