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Murillo. “Niños comiendo uvas y melón”.

Believe me,
I was not better nor worse
than anyone;
nor had I less faith
in the signals of an uncertain future,
nor my certainties were
less childish and less smiling
facing the distant song of death.
But behold, the words
came day by day,
page by page,
and I collected them
and I piled them
as ripe fruits
for the fateful days.
And I waited into this pause
of the world,
fermenting, as mist
thickening before the time
of wreck.
They weaved this garland,
this frugal crown,
this feed of famished gods,
of blind fairies.
I won’t go into details,
but I would say that the speck of dust,
the blink of an amoeba,
the colors of a subatomic pulse,
the microscopic fiber of nothingness,
shook the leaves of a shrilling
song that cracked
my hemispheres
and mutilated my forehead.
And I would say more
if it was not because
they are sad lies,
stuffy hyperboles
to expel
the reeks
of words stalled
and rotting
and which I touch
as a greedy beggar
before the next feast
of leftovers.

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