THE MORNING

This sorrow
does not
belong to you
it belongs to the air
that evaporates
              to the light
              that shatters
              like glass

You take
to the street
with the crossbow
tensed
against
the chiaroscuro
of the city
              beautifully
              wounded

Running
across the streets
until the entire city
disappears
under your steps
              only shadows
              left

And to the east
the sea
unattainable
the rumour
the tide
the dark
that murmurs
              the moon has fallen
              into the water

Running
through the night
void
of dreams
looking for me
on empty
train platforms
              boats
              departing

You run
without finding me
there is no one there
except one man
              one man
              every man

Walking
raining
the night settles
into his eyes
on his back
he carries an entire village
while in his hands
bloom flowers
              fish

He hides
crouching down
behind park trees
waiting
for infinity
to open

He sleeps
surrounded
by the echo
of birds
and sirens
his boots
covered in
star dust

And the visible
resignation
of those who
have walked
across
constellations

You run
without finding me
there is no one there
except one man
              one man
              every man

You want
to cry with him
for the newborns
and bid farewell
with laughter
to the dead

You want to remember
every stone
with your fingers
and see the light
nesting
over the buildings

I am sitting
right here
on the edge
of the night
contemplating
that so other
lost in the woods
              the brume

It so happens
that I believe
in the clouds
in their neatly
written pages
In the trees
that carry a vessel
in their womb
              sometimes I think
              I am a tree

I see you running
desolated
among the men
who sleep
on the sidewalks
like gardens
              drinking
              dew

Exhausted
you return
home
behind
each door
you open
hides
a moon

The morning
is an illegal child
innocent

who runs seduced
by the cold air
that lacerates
the skin

And quietly
with the fallen night
makes a star

While you
fall defeated
over deserted
sheets
beside you lies down
an adolescent wind
just about to beget
birds

The astral
solitude
that you inhabit
does not belong to you
it belongs to me

And even if
my language
is rain
and your voice a river
that carries the drowned
we will trust
one another
like a child
trusts another child
              and let go

Anyone
can grab
the dawn
but I
improvising
riding this poem
bareback
I can set the world
on fire
and reinvent it
with words

Under
the bed
I leave you
my heart
so that in it you may plough
look for treasures
bury your dead

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