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
and before the sadness of the lonely sea
makes us go back to him, crying,
we will fly, impeccable, our