station is abandoned in the desert. It is a world, a world of desert. No more nothing around but sand boiling, sun no shadow at zenith and the punishing wind and wood veneers. In the middle of the season, an old man. Wears his battered uniform, almost as old as. It has a faded hat and shoes worn. Look at the floor, waiting. God is an old man in his desert. It has thousands of thousands of years.
No one has been in a long time and yet he insists on his faith. Know what you do not know more about the experience. You know very well that everything comes to he expected.
Meanwhile, at another time during the time, I named it. And yet comes in a hotel's image forever. His backpack old faded from his bags as much road. My time of the emotion that has already died and bending of the circumstances that we saw when we were scene and we see now, from the backstage.
I run on the road and do not really know to where. But run I change the landscape y me muestra mas de mi y mas de todo.
Quiero ser el murmullo y la corriente del río que te bañe. Te veo aparecer tarareando, sonriente y sos preludio de alegrías, mas que mujer.
Toda vos, con tu halo, con tus duendes, tus vestidos, tu vuelo y tu serpentina.
Toda en el velo silencioso de tu aura, en el interior de los sonidos y en el calor de la calle.
Un paso de distancia es la diferencia. Un metro mas allá eras una imagen de la ciudad, el murmullo en el aire, los bocinazos.
Ahora, un paso después, parece que el viento se calma y estuviéramos en casa.
Tus ojos me miran. Tu nariz me mira, tus mejillas, tus labios, tus pómulos, tus besos guardados me miran desde las comisuras.
Now that I spent this way, I'm one step closer, but no sound.
All is silent.
lips are announced in the eyes of one side or the other. Kissing lips fingers, freckles, moles of the end of the back, the soft skin behind the knees, umbilicus, eyelids.
That experience, can only be experienced and nothing else.
not justify a single attempt to spend more words to explain it, other than under the precondition of fervent desire to live. Sounds
train elsewhere in other dimensions, in the desert. Get the clock in the pocket of an old god who felt abandoned. One station lost nothing and with nothing else around. There awaits the old man sitting on the bank of the ancien dry under the eaves boiling plate.
Turn your head and look to the horizon. The rails are two black wires in the vastness of bright yellow.
In the distance, a column of smoke, smile, as if someone saw it. As if to demonstrate to the whole universe always knew what would happen. Just
schedule. Just as it should be.
Photo: Butterfly, by captain for "Friday's Girls"
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