On one of these laps of the fishing boats with their red sails that scour the island of the insane we look up.
The woman who was staring from the harbour is back there, in a sea of people.
We read about the great gap between the people and the colonialists.
The press that did not come here that shows pictures of half-naked women with white clothes and black teeth.
The madness of the man on the second floor is beyond the penetration of the purple arrow.
We read the messages of the leftist and the feminist struggle in Portuguese and Spanish and we do not know what it means.
The man who raises up the voice of union does not know the relatives who listen to the voices of the streets and of the flowers and of the trees the voice of the ascetic saying that does not stress the ear.
I clearly knew beyond this stormy weather within my head. I am the poet writing this prose.
The sailor sailing blindly — flying!
:: 07.02.2022 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 