lunes, 2 de junio de 2014


He navigates sleepwalking to my bedroom door,
Speechless with his tiny existence,
T'is one o'clock in the morning and he's thirsty.

Amazing how his little steps are enough to
Make me jump out of bed
To get him back to his sheets.
He drinks some water.
He gets back to sleep.

I sit beside his bed
In an armchair, in vigilance.
We haven't interchanged a word.
Won't move from there until I'm sure he's
Back on his night.
He seems to smile with satisfaction.

As I return to bed I scan my responsibilities:
It's mid-first week of August,
A rainy season as usual,
A new day fulfillment of intense scheduled meetings.

This is almost a daily task
I have never thought I would accept
With joys of missions accomplished,
With the servancy of the greatests
To infancy.
Nowadays, it's useful being sleepless.

My wife lies beside me
With her pregnant beauty and
Molested by her eighth month womb,
Unable to have a full night sleep,
Haunted by a new life about to begin,
Exercizing fantasies and worries of what
Represents a second creature to raise in her forties.

I reached where I never dreamt in adolescence,
Being over fifty was not a plan.
I have walked the beaten path, One I thought wasn't mine.
Maturity, the intelligence of time, wisdom.

And this night moves on,
There's silence outside
Cutted by my wife's difficult breathings
As the baby takes more space in her life
And pressures her lungs.
The backlit screen and words are all I have
To move towards daylight.

Now it's almost five o'clock
And I recall what has been done,
The politics of living,
The negotiations,
The thorough remembrances of past
Dashes through a chain of
Neural connections:

My days in Massachussets are as flat
In mind as yesterday,
As Facebook's timeline:
The mediocracies of loving,
The ignorances,
The charming days of the body,
The contingencies of aging,
The accountability of friendships.

These are no times for poetry,
These are no times for the percieved weakness
Of naked words.
These are times for intolerances
And clumsiness of the fittests
And no caring.

That's what fate and time reserved me:
Raise the children of uncertainty
And carry them through,
Towards new ages.

That's what time has reserved for me:
Sleepiness, rested desires
That I have forgived myself for,
As he lays in his bed
And dreams of being,
And smiles as good as God.

                                                                                              Buenos Aires, 06/08/2012

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