No more gadgets than my eyes,
already tired, and listless,
no longer look,
I looked for a fugitive of non-destination
in the recesses of some
inhospitable barren garden.
But what was there
more than a barren garden,
more than a gaze without eyes,
more than my soul
perhaps asking for asylum in the wings of a bird infinite
a story gold
pieces of a story
only brings pain and death
to death?
I know that still inhabit this space
tired words
be hidden behind words that say nothing at all, loves
tired of being tired
love if not love, be love
dying in my always taciturn
lines in a direct line to death ... I know that this
own self-aware, more than
consciousness that gives
my own conscience when you go to a
space to rest my hopes
aware of all the frightening reality.
I know that's where
'm definitely now
where I'll stay to rest
to lose total awareness of myself and recover
gaze.
Bernabe Jiron
Stock.
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