We both know what 
the black stars hide:
our brainless fears,
our lost encephalic mass,
our forgetful silhouettes.

yesterday i spent some time
staring at an indiferent mirror
in a restaurant as if that
amnesiac face could tell me
what to do.
but there is no goodness
in keeping memories
when one can't remember them.
time is deceitful.

i look at her,
holding the heart of my heart,
forgetting who she was
to see who she is now.
tomorrow is an oblivious man
dressed in white.
tomorrow we will shoot doubts 
at him like two soldiers in an execution.
i wonder if he can decipher
the enigmas written in her mind.

if i could for one single moment,
stop the process of being swallowed
by time,
i would be a baby in her ever open arms again:
she made me think i was a butterfly.
she made me think i could be
whoever i wanted to be as long as
i believed.
but i am afraid of praying:
the raw wounds in my knees,
the words i repeat in exile,
the holes in my weird faith.
i know it loves me like
a distracted god.

there is no comfort
in being a bleeding moon
when we become a lovely concept,
an ideal forgotten in the drawers
of a memory.
i am not prepared to accept
and as i weep for both of us,
the clock haunts me more.

against me time, the deaf king runs.

the future is a three-dimensional black image,
an x-ray of our bitten nails
as we wait for Astor Piazzola
to play oblivion again.

i even don't know how to end
this poem.
it is late and all i can do
is to murmur to myself
to be strong,
to be honest,
to not cry
because life is a miracle,
because she still remembers
our love, our ties, our misery.

kala bardanza

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