Feathers
In the softness,
in the night of the day,
when everything finally flows.
At the end, with no fear of flying,
among feathers, in the final softness,
in the glory of needing nothing and everything,
in the pleasure of having sailed through the waters,
those waters of love that came to us from every side.
With the feather that glides through impossible poems,
when the impossible no longer exists, and everything was conquered,
upon knowing that we needed nothing and yet lacked everything.
In those moments when everything tastes like air that intoxicates us,
in the fatigue where we no longer feel the pain of being able to fly,
at the end of that path, everything becomes feathers for flight,
toward that unknown side in the abandonment of the body.
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PLUMAS
En la suavidad,
en la noche del día,
cuando todo fluye al fin.
En el final, sin miedo a volar,
entre plumas, en la suavidad final,
en la gloria de no necesitar nada y todo,
en el placer de haber navegado en las aguas,
esas aguas del amor que nos vino por todos lados.
Con la pluma que se desliza en poemas imposibles,
cuando el imposible ya no existe, y todo se conquistó,
al saber que no necesitamos nada y que nos faltó todo.
En esos momentos que todo sabe a aire que nos embriaga,
en la fatiga donde ya no sentimos el dolor de poder volar,
al final de ese camino, todo son plumas para volar,