Poem by Marcela Villar M
***
They want me to write in storm
but my lyric is calm harvest
A thick breath carried all the winters
freezing hair and hands.
So what I write is infinite,
almost hopeless of an end.
As if the walls and hallways
keep talking and talking
not wearing from repeating the same.
I don’t know what they are whispering through their teeth.
I don’t understand, although I approach them and put
my still ear close to their withered lips.
I know they laugh at what they don’t know,
like those idle garages do,
in ephemeral exchanges.
Their laughter permeates the gardens
who listen to them from afar.
They are like puffs of mirages
unborn.
They are falling from perpetual cliffs
never reaching the void.
©Marcela Villar M. All rights reserved. 2020
