at such an hour
when night arrives
like a pregnant woman
in white sneakers —
you must be careful
not to destroy someone’s home,
an angel’s home, for example.
it’s very easy, actually,
because it doesn’t need much:
a little gate, and a headscarf
from a grandmother’s head —
an angel’s home
is easy to destroy,
because it lives in the heart of an equilibrist.
and a home can also be destroyed
with a whisper under a blanket —
the whisper lives by the ear
like sleep in cornflowers.
at such an hour
time becomes beautiful,
like something accidental,
like a accidental poem
that you read like a phone directory.
so be careful:
leave all these windows where they are,
their light on the sleepy trees,
and the wind that sat on the pier
and now kisses every face
like a relative from the South,
and then sits again on the pier,
or on a collar that smells of cologne,
or on the shoulders of a children
whose father carries them high.
a twilight street,
like an opal river —
I was in it without a boat,
and looked at a magnolia bud:
this patience i must steal!
but I won’t.
in the daytime I already saw
three flying flowers —
that’s what I call butterflies —
and in the daytime I also saw
sprouts in a flower shop.
the spring wind
passes by that shop
so as not to harm,
so as not to startle souls
by accident.
now I must pass by everyone the same way,
and wait like this,
as people do —
until the magnolia wakes up.