The bullet holes in the walls: Byung-Chul Han
In the sloping corners of humankind hangs the skeleton.
Ghosts are not hidden and flowers are exhausted,
Although some folds shelter beauty and
the old man can smile for some seconds
while he scratches the sky looking for
a ball that may glitter inside all.
The players cannot find the secret of the elegy,
While history dress only with one color
It is not the hour for a pilgrim. Many are left
On the side of the road with the lack of revelations.
One must remain faithful to litanies
To the holy reverence to the fatigue society.
Humans are around a corner
It does no matter if a barrel of tar is thrown in their full face.
Mouth and tongue pronounce the morning
Edition of obsessions, although the thickness of
the age and the readiness the long roll deeply sunk
no months to build effigies
I swear, I would die for you, but I have
no austerity for breath. I dream cities without clocks,
they hurt me, then I would add up stone by stone of kindness,
worry about questions, good questions,
and dream cities full of flavors and faces I can touch.
My apologies. It is late.Where there is a city
there is no city.
Copyright © Eduardo Escalante | Year Posted 2017