They walk past,
day in and day out.

They see through,
out of sight out of mind.

Can't they feel the cold,
and smell the mold?

There, where I lie.
Suspended in time.

Rotting through tiles.
Nurturing flies.

Outside, the world keeps spinning,
the ebb and flow go on,

I can still hear them laughing,
just beyond that threshold.

Not much left of me,
that fixture by the wall,

Locked within that room,
past the door no one goes through.

Death rattled mind,
synapses primed,

Firing like a shooting squad,
To the sound of chuckles from afar.

They won't mourn me,
nor the likeness we shared,

There needn’t be tears,
from those that've been spared.

De aquel mesiánico Rolando solo queda el recuerdo. No hace tanto que se fue, pero su memoria la vivo en tintes de sepia y en su ausencia las flores, por cinco otoños marchitas, hacen de cama al sepulcro.

Y es que aquello era sublime, un Edén de posibilidades con cada amanecer, tan joven y tan libre.

En su vacío quedamos solo Ello y Yo, transeúntes de un futuro sin rumbo, convidados por su recuerdo y ese duelo que en su cronicidad nos arropa y en cuya promesa pendulan el sol y la luna.

Pero ni el paso del tiempo ni el enclaustro en que habitamos han sabido limar nuestras asperezas. Acinados conviviendo como males necesarios. Codependientes, en esa metástasis mutua que nos mantiene a flote.

Quien fuera Dios en tal hipocresía para abortar aquel diamante en bruto, y sembrar en su lugar esa otredad que me atormenta. Esta quimera de rabia y tristeza cuya mirada en el espejo me encuentra, cuyo pensar me acosa y cuya voluntad me esposa.

No queda más que regresar con flores al sepulcro y amargura en el alma. Anhelando en silencio a que el invierno no vuelva.

It’s often I’d look unto the past,
a world of wonders not meant to last,
of joys forgotten, the die long cast,
of memories drifting and fleeing fast.

It's often I'd think of us,
moments of still quiet, mixed with triumphant fuss,
where peace would find me, where I'd be allowed to trust,
It's only then, when the hammer falls, that I'm struck by loss,

It's often that I think of dying,
that sleep may find me, without us goodbyeing,
the surplus of a lifetime, relatives crying.
But above all, that not enough time was spent trying.

They ought to handle you with care,
the ease of your destruction, a power to beware.

Sailors, willfully drowned, as if to stifle their lust.

Nations crumbled, in their pillars, the bite mark of your rust.

Who knew man could find solace in the cold?
If only to escape such an erosion of the soul.

They ought to handle you with care,
you who would lovingly strip our bones bare.