I DON’T KNOW

Distant are all the houses I am dreaming of,

distant is the voice of my mother

calling me for dinner, but I run toward the fields of wheat.

We are distant like a ball that misses the goal

and goes toward the sky, we are alive

like a thermometer that is precise only when

we look at it.

The distant reality every day questions me

like an unknown traveler who wakes me up in the middle of the journey

saying Is this the right bus？,

and I answer Yes, but I mean I don't know,

I don't know the cities of your grandparents

who want to leave behind all discovered diseases

and cures made of patience.

I dream of a house on the hill of our longings,

to watch how the waves of the sea draw

the cardiogram of our falls and loves,

how people believe so as not to sink

and step so as not to be forgotten.

Distant are all the huts where we hid from the storm

and from the pain of the does dying in front of the eyes of the hunters

who were more lonely than hungry.

The distant moment every day asks me

Is this the window？ Is this the life？ and I say

Yes, but I mean I don't know, I don't know if

birds will begin to speak, without uttering A sky.