By Oscar Rosales
An almost ancient man
went with his sight fixed
on the seat of the bus.
His furrowed face spoke
grizzle in his beard,
the surface of the floor moved
his tranquillity, the people did not even
notice this, absorbed in
their dreams.
I watched him, recognizing in
him his alert soul,
he looked at me, with his eyes
filled with tears
salted by us who inhabit
these worlds.
From his nostrils
blood began to shed,
the colour of pain.
Crying perhaps is bleeding
as well.
People soon noticed it,
everyone stopped and
around him people wondered
what was going on with him.
They asked him:
'What's going on, Sir?'
The man answered,
looking intensively at me
with his tearful eyes:
"Who wouldn't like
to write to a mountain,
a mountain free from
bullets and saws.
Who wouldn't like
to write someone that the
children play light-hearted
and the cows graze peacefully
and the spices move without fear.
Who wouldn't make odes to the ocean
from there, who wouldn't embrace
the earth, who wouldn't put
his arm around a tree
like a friend".
And the poet man
left his mortal garment and
with a white garment
he floated through
the people.
And all the present,
little by little,
dressed in sincerity.
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