Ernesto Trejo

In Short

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Let's say that on the corner there is a man.
That today his son spread out his arms
in a dream in which he never woke
and this man saw in his son a bird
but wasn't sure if the wings spread out to fly
or if, being in the air,
he would spiral into his arms.

Let's say that underneath this man
the grass is crowned by thorns,
and on these you can see mosquitoes
swallowing air and the air
is nothing but a background or a synthesis
of the scene; let's say a painter
imagined the whole thing up.

Let's say, in short, that there's no painter,
but there is a child, a man . . . maybe a painter,
and they are in different cities and today
they have gathered in my house, at my table,
and I didn't toy with their fate;
but described something that didn't happen in
my poem,
but in a city the name of which I ignore.

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