High Summer Sun

The massive doors of circumstance
always turn on
the smallest hinge.
 
And so any possibility,
the most remote, that appears,
It often gives
to our life the red aftermath of it.
 
The peeled corners
of our daily lives.
The common things meager and vain.
Memories are worth
without any visible trace
that survive us.
These are the ways,
after everything.
 
The chocolate colored painting.
And the July sun
spent like an appliance
that peels off the last
love efforts.
 
More than time has abandoned.
There is the abandonment of the god,
that rose from the ocean
a hundred years ago.
 
The peeling paint
is a portrait of emigrants
of  an America lost between coasts.
 
To have been through it all,
to have suffered everything
and have left the door hanging.
 
Everyday life is everywhere,
wherever an abandonment
be denied - a crow
that takes off after an accident,
wearing the gray uniform
of any other bird.
 
A carnivore that waits
by the bones of life.
Flowers for memory, in a well.
In the depths, each sacred gesture
becomes vain, soiling the door.
 
 
PAR