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Poem

From here I see you lost, clapping your hands on birthdays, getting worse with the years, never failing to disappoint. From here I see the roofs of the houses where I could have been a father, a good son, but also all the ones I would be are lost, all fleeing in their automobiles, poisoning the streets with tears falling from every face I had, while the rats would continue invading the patios full of trinkets, walking on plastic tables, on old vases with dried foliage, daring through the cracks in the doors, ignoring the loves built and broken in each room, gnawing the lamps, the cribs, the walls and the foundation of the world. It's like a sentence and then we know we'll never go back inside ourselves, where we once found what felt like peace, what should have been light, like the soft presence of those we thought loved us, before they showed their weapons in the quiet afternoons in which our hearts should be calm, playing at not listening to the arrival of rats, the imposition of antagonisms, the transformation of our dreams into scars, the slow and constant emptying of what was once our life full of life.

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