As time goes

 

The curly gypsy that,

sitting on the ground,

with a stick in his hands,

with his chin lying on it,

observes the evolutions of his monkey

shaking the tambourine,

remembers, no doubt,

the night that Australopithecus

raised sillily his hands

trying to take the moon.

 

He will remember to have read it someday

in his book of pyramid palm,

flicking through the millenial leaves

in some andalusian fair.

And, even, in certain autumn mornings

he will have seen him crossing

the brushy land

and he will have broken with his crying in pieces

the porcelain of time.

 

Ah, what a drag, he will think, of the hours

that seem that they would not get used

to the passing once and for all

and were ever doubting whether to stop

or even to go back!

Or those hills snoozing

on the skyline like dinosaurs,

that seep through the gears of time

and seem that they were going to break it

once and for all!

 

But our lives, he will say to himself, are like

the clouds

and before the sadness of the lonely sea

makes us go back to him, crying,

we will fly, impeccable, our

freedom´s fate.

 

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