Notas perdidas en Aviñón

Él sueña con un inmerso despertar. Ella taciturna, tras primaveras con sus abriles de extenso poder y albedrío. Ellos vivieron un sueño, ahora sueñan con la vida. Sueños latentes, sueños espinados. Él se sienta bajo la sombra de un árbol. Imagina a la sombra desplazándose con cautela al pasar el sol. La imagina recorriendo los suelos de la vieja Europa. Que pasea por los viñedos empapados de añoranza. Que pasea sobre los mares secos por amargura. Por las casas y negocios fracturados desde más occidente. Que resbala por las planicies pintadas de rojo. Él imagina que el sol brilla en la tarde sobre Europa, sin embargo la sombra no se va. El sol no se mueve. La brisa no suena. Él observa a su imaginación y le escupe. Es un sueño la tarde, un sueño el mañana y el tiempo no da para eso. Cualquier segundo es un saludo a la muerte.

Ella deambula por los caminos y observa. Se imagina que aquella ciudad, que aquel pueblo es uno mismo, piensa en la suavidad del sueño que solía vivir. Ahora los colores se esconden en escala de grises. El café y el vino no se reconocen en un vaso de papel. La suavidad se encalla. La mente explota. Ella no encuentra hogar, no diferencia, no distingue. Ellos saben soñar porque desconocen vivir. Ellos no saben si pisan Francia o Alemania. Preguntan por su hogar. Europa se fragmenta y cae en trozos de papel. El Estado sucumbe ante la ambición.

Ellos al ser de nada son de todos. Son unos. Unos que reclaman, unos que no saben, unos que lloran. Necesitan de aquel que ve. De aquel que tiene tiempo de soñar porque sabe que el sueño da vida. Unos dispuestos a seguir a ese que sabe dónde caminar. Son ellos entes que buscan un ser. Son grises que buscan un color. Son sombras que buscan viajar al paso del sol. El sol de Italia y el sol en Alemania brillan sobre los unos. El sol del sueño embriaga al europeo. Confía en la tarde ilógica. La inverosimilitud es. Es color que gotea en rojo de las viejas heridas. Es la brisa que sopla y suena en los Pirineos. Es el brillo del dulce mañana. El sueño le sonríe al fantasma de Europa. El sueño grita el regreso. Es bello el sueño. Él y ella despiertan en la vieja Londres, en aquel Moscú, en esa Viena. Se levantan con mirada perdida. Con ojos mojados. Giran el cuello al árbol y ven la sombra. El llanto comienza. El gris camina por la vieja Europa. ¿Será la sombra de un recuerdo la que pese como plomo en alma? Son las figuras que bailan en las noches de Paris las que se recuerdan. Las frases de “crisis”, de “imposición”, de “fe” pintan los muros de ladrillo. El europeo se concentró en querer ser. Él y ella sueñan con las tardes en Varsovia. Sus mentes prontas a regresar explotan como dos hermanos en querella. Desesperados. Olvidaron quiénes son, ese sueño carcome su memoria y están destinados a la guerra. Una guerra por dejar de soñar.

Thoughts Of A Man In Times Of Freedom

Marvelous flames are the ones invading my heart,
not of passion nor love,
they are of dead,
the world is their fuel.

Life is to unearthly know I built a wall,
between fullness and myself.
We had restricted living, with time,
and we had restricted time, with the world.

In this times of isolation, of cold,
those flames heat my thinking.
Is that much the noise in my soul?
Do am I less human thanks to all that matter in myself?

I pray for silence on myself.
I pray for that entity that is called “me” to transcend.
I pray for praying.
I pray to be quit.

In this loneliness habits the color,
there is more wind,
more melodies,
more life.

Inside this solitude is where deaf, I hear,
where blind, I look,
where dumb, I sing,
where dead, I live.

The dawn and dusk has an hour:
I don’t have time,
The world doesn’t have time!
And is getting late for living,

if there isn’t hour for dying
maybe it is because time doesn’t matter:
Without time, isn’t getting late for living.
The watch is so heavy that stifles the soul.

I pray know for not living between clock hands,
for not living in the sound.
I pray for dispel the incandescent flames
and support flames of life.

Father: I don’t ask you to talk,
I ask you for me to listen.
Mother: I don’t ask your love,
I ask for me to love.

Son, I don’t ask your serving,
I beg you for letting me serve.
I beg for been human in a world without men,
without life.

I want to be worthy of humanity,
to serve, love and listen to life,
overshadowed by world men,
hidden under the rubble of the human soul.

To you, world man:
Listen the melody trapped in the sound.
Measure life with charity, not with seconds;
with sacrifice, not with claims.

To you, world man:
Jump of your buildings
and fly in the sky.
Look to the plenitude of life.

To you, world man:
Be humble, because in poverty,
you’ll be richer than in arrogance.
You have more to give in your knees than in your pockets.

To you, world man:
Love with faith, not with flesh.
Faith in your love, increases it.
Flesh only imprisons your love.

We are called the creation of the creations;
however, below us exists a lot more beauty
than in the putrid flesh we dress.
We have decomposed.

I pray for my folk,
people of world,
so we open ourselves to the truth
and close to selfishness.

Seek for straightness, for love.
Let us open our eyes,
that in the glance of God is more for men
than in the material enjoyment.

Let us pray for being of God and not of world.

Repression of Life, Expression of Dead

Today I saw Mr. John kill someone.
I saw exactly how it happened,
as everyone at the bar.

I’ve been hearing what they are telling to the police:
“John entered and shot him in the head,
after that , he shoot himself.”

That isn’t my side of the story,
not what my old eyes looked.
It wasn’t as simple as that.

There was a man,
Mr. John is how he was called;
he had a wife, and he hate her deeply.

People say: “Behind a great man, there is even a better woman.”}
But I say: “Behind a regular guy,
there is a deceiver.

John was a regular guy,
with Muriel his wife,
a deceiver.

John used to sing,
to paint.
To talk.

Mr. John can’t sing,
paint or
talk.

John was like my brother,
was the best man at my wedding
and my baby doll’s godfather.

He used to laugh,
to live,
he used to exist…

until her.

She does sing,
paint and
talk, but

she sings the shouts,
paint black and white,
and talk non-sense.

That is Muriel,
Mr. John’s wife,
the deceiver.

I guess everyone needs it,
I suppose he looked for it.
I know he found it.

Everyone need a life,
there are times when we just have a way,
sometimes the most desperate.

He took his shotgun,
and saw Muriel directly in her eyes,
just to let her know what he lose;

he went out
and look for Muriel’s dad
just to let him know;

he found it at the bar,
the deceiver’s creator.
He didn’t thought it twice, and shoot him.

I guess everyone needs it,
and we need to look for it,
when you find it, is when you’ll know you’re alive.

Mr. John heard the music of caps falling.
He saw the color, in the blood.
He finally talked, through the shotgun;

so let me correct what they say it happened:
“Mr. John entered and shot him,
after that, John shoot himself;

finally Mr. John, the deceiver’s husband,
was dead,
although,


my great friend,
John,
was brought back from the dead, and believe me:

He was alive.