Even the wind wants



to become a cart



pulled by butterflies.







I remember madness



leaning for the first time



on the mind’s pillow.



I was talking to my body then



and my body was an idea



I wrote in red.







Red is the sun’s most beautiful throne



and all the other colors



worship on red rugs.







Night is another candle.



In every branch, an arm,



a message carried in space



echoed by the body of the wind.







The sun insists on dressing itself in fog



when it meets me:



Am I being scolded by the light?







Oh, my past days—



they used to walk in their sleep



and I used to lean on them.







Love and dreams are two parentheses.



Between them I place my body



and discover the world.







Many times



I saw the air fly with two grass feet



and the road dance with feet made of air.







My wishes are flowers



staining my days.







I was wounded early,



and early I learned



that wounds made me.







I still follow the child



who still walks inside me.







Now he stands at a staircase made of light



searching for a corner to rest in



and to read the face of night again.







If the moon were a house,



my feet would refuse to touch its doorstep.







They are taken by dust



carrying me to the air of seasons.







I walk,



one hand in the air,



the other caressing tresses



that I imagine.







A star is also



a pebble in the field of space.







He alone



who is joined to the horizon



can build new roads.







A moon, an old man,



his seat is night



and light is his walking stick.







What shall I say to the body I abandoned



in the rubble of the house



in which I was born?



No one can narrate my childhood



except those stars that flicker above it



and that leave footprints



on the evening’s path.







My childhood is still



being born in the palms of a light



whose name I do not know



and who names me.







Out of that river he made a mirror



and asked it about his sorrow.



He made rain out of his grief



and imitated the clouds.







Your childhood is a village.



You will never cross its boundaries



no matter how far you go.







His days are lakes,



his memories floating bodies.







You who are descending



from the mountains of the past,



how can you climb them again,



and why?







Time is a door



I cannot open.



My magic is worn,



my chants asleep.







I was born in a village,



small and secretive like a womb.



I never left it.



I love the ocean not the shores.





