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 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:
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