The storm

like that man looking for a word
to save him from himself,
not finding it until it’s too late
and the building’s closed,
and no more visitors will be let in,
and there’s no salvation inside anyway.

he goes through his various crises,
the unreality of the real,
the blades of the useless day,
and when he least expects it
a storm speaks for him,
in which the day finally trembles.

the water of a winter he can inhale,
the occasion for a cold sky
to trust the future after
misunderstanding it for so long –
the way some birds sing
for no other reason but the light.

when sunlight returns
and makes room for itself in the trees
on the sabbath everything is fragrance
and wealth color of time.
you need the rain
to see through it.

the rain is a curtain
that purifies the landscape.
how the scenery cleanses itself
in order to welcome us again.
the irreverence of the clouds
is a rare courtesy.

this is where you’d like to be:
the half-transparence of these codes
and the diffidence of that which keeps watch
over the clarity of a living world
every morning in front of you,
the heart and its unanswered questions.

to be reality like all that’s dark.

(From Para lo que no existe, 1999)

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