The New World
The lily of the lake when it rises I see it, though I sleep on an old pillow. How much the arrivals told me about distant spaces, but without pain I forgot their stories and sat in the corner as a great acquaintance.
The years here are trembling, children have eaten their peel. There is no room left for the person to accommodate his smile. Those perching on my chest have made darkness a fruit of a breeze, but it is still dark.
Welcome, O happy Gulf, for the sunset is filled with every charming dance. Jerusalem yawns, protruding from its ribs the skulls of childhood stolen by the New World.
Silence expands in the breezes of my skin. The gulls babbling at a lake clipped their wings in the evening. There is no high sky, nor a beloved coast. I will give up the idea of immortality and a happy life. This world does not leave a shadow of joy when it talks about its beloved desires.
Yes, when the hill has forsaken its great glories, and I have forgotten the questions of my childhood, then you can imagine how narrow my desire is?
Wheat and flowers are great pioneers, who make of the paths of death forests that enchant the eyes. How is the way? And there are only birds that have been frozen for a long winter.
This is the new world, looking out the window without good introductions. His brown tales are scattered among the branches of generosity, like wings without a homeland or nostalgia. At the bartender there, a rustic smile awaits me, whose dark heart does not know love. Yes, the flowers have changed, and the water in the river has become too meager to accommodate the waiting of the toilers.
