One never returns from time but from mirrors,
lakes where you stoop and glimpse the silence
of your face.
Each morning they remember you, a stern judge,
orphan of the child you were.
At the bottom of the eyes herons were abandoned,
the puerile and clear shadow of the Judas-tree,
september continued singing on your shoulders
or between the first rains of your life.
It was an instant: the fire which carried you
to the eternal joy of one moment
died out in your hands, gold and stone
of your being.
Even patience became a silent guitar.
But don’t lose your voice in that.
Soon you will rise from melancholy,
that bed of misunderstandings where the body lies
exhausted and ends up sequestering the heart.
While inmates of fatalism lock themselves
in labyrinths of solitude, follow another path
bound south, toward the house and the clarity
where your steps were born
springing toward the river.