DEATH IS NOT SUBLIME, HISTORY IS NOT WISE

Death is not sublime, history is not wise

said the watchmaker outside of the store’s gates

the shimmer of the guitar strings from the side of the square

at times is but a lightning chasing a translucent freedom

according to the master describable 

only by filigree made of wings of butterflies

that have already landed on the heads of the statues

alleged to come to life

The deranged painter draws the city as seen from the moon

Howling for bridges are the streets covered in pedestrian crossings

the fate-bringing turmoil produces

days from a past imprisoned in clepsydra

Death is not sublime, history is not wise

The light tears us into moments

towards which lead all the paths of two or three angels with no notion of time

the soul is a flag embroidered onto a black stone

Death is not sublime, history is not wise

you are my madness and a house of the surise

a vision of a sky that’s falling

and gathering our glimpses in a gloomy rain.

The madness is not sublime, the present is not omnipresent 

You are unhinged, and the moon stays stronger than the night

as the lips are firmer than the words

born somewhere between the bodies with borders painted by souls

applying a sad rain.

Give up the stars

for the night will show you only

the side of the moon

that mirrors the glowing of tears.

21.08 2018,

In front of Victor Hugo's house in San Juan