The loose notebooks
they walk around here and there,
taken out of hiding.
As the syndrome of Estolcomo
I see white walls
almost empty, almost
the free space
even within the walls,
I like space.
Light plays with the smoothness of the painting
tersuras of the picture, that I love,
that I saw him born,
smooth, creamy
The sounds come from above,
I put them there.
The hammock on the curtain.
The head of the condor in its place.
And January Quetzal dominates everything,
before the mysterious look of the ebony slave,
on the corks of a thousand amazing wines.
And the universe according to the Tafi,
in the center of everything,
stars, the Moon,
under a round of fused hands.
All the bones are,
antlers, horns,
breastplates, fangs,
teeth, breastplates, tails.
Stones, rocks,
shells, conches,
scrapers,
more stones,
Eternal stones!
Compasses with watches,
the Russian chronometer,
ready as always,
the alarm clock of Churri.
While the notebooks enjoy their freedom,
and they come and go
And I do not draw anything
A beautiful female in her dresser chair,
who always turns his back on me,
yearning and fearful,
always beautiful.
How many beaches,
how many roads,
hills, mountains,
open immensities,
and traveled páramos.
Life does not stop!
