About the time. Translation by Maria Eugenia Caseiro



How smooth the sliding of the hours

when they leave to be hours

and the time is barely

a swaying of the space. It is so

that I walk barefoot the slopes

and in the afternoon

I gaze at the first men

battle-hardened and slow

Dinosaurs of the sun

tempering the eggs of the day

so that be born the springs

so that the young children and elders

complete the circles of the year.

How smooth the sliding of the hours

when blue insects sing into the silence

that the afternoon cries

and cries

breaking down the look of the light

until the moon

devours the minutes and all the evenings

with their pantophagics teeth

with their dead looks

with their children beheaded

all in an register of innocence

while the time devises their poisons

and the first men hide behind the mountains.

To the next unfolded of the eras.