HAZARA
I breathe
I hold the breaths between one life and
another
It is all that is left
What I encapsulate on the road to
death
It all happens so fast,
We hardly raise our sight toward the
air
And
another dart is shot
With
the currishness that shots the atribute
The
dream
The
hugsty place they set each time a writer dies.
Between
one life and another
There
will be always a breath to be picked up
A
lament to collect.
The cord that was thrown since
chilhood
Goes on crumbling until it is only
that:
Another
breath;
It is as if one picked up with
nostalgia
the luggage that has been dropped by the
roadside.
No one
knows who are their owners
Or
what it has within
Between luggage
and candles
Life
goes on crumbling
What
is left of its breath
The breath could be our
own:
A shy hope packed by fate for those still to
die.
Winston
Morales Chavarro
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