The ram Is just cleansing the houses,

orchards and mountains, and even the sky.

The wind prances, poses, and flees,

hunting for the sadness of morning.
The day comes, woman, and gets going

like the old wheel of a flourmill.

 

The river of life has slim bridges
of cut stone, tender and lemon yellow,

and I, passing, fast, scribble names

that cry pity to the eternal silence.

 

01-12-2011