Sometimes lightning...

Sometimes lightning...

We are of those dead who are not

convinced they are dead,

always hidden behind the gates,

like thieves, in the background, behind the door

of happiness (but with the laces

untied), with their noses in the air, and waiting

an opportunity to return. Well nevermind,

but stop spitting on the walls.

Sometimes lightning...

Speak, speak of ashes, of dew, speak

with eyes closed and lips that chatter

alone, automatically, unintentionally, speak

it's like saying, “nothing. Patience. So be it.

We will see each other again, fear not.”

But then the melancholy returns, like a fool,

and I turn around, run home

for fear that my son in the crib

has caught fire.

Let me reach out a hand girls let me

extend: life is a waltz; a thunderstorm.

Sometimes lightning...