My god,
how many trains have run me over.
Lengthy compositions,
loaded up with promises
and hopes..
once,
twelve thousand meters
above the clear and jagged teeth of the
Atlantic,
under the uneasy gaze
of a dusky flight attendant
I had nearly discovered
that happy law
of a body in free fall.
I had nearly discovered
the unpowered,
tame flight
of the soul...
But why am I recounting all this?!
To whom am I telling it?!
They say,
the very lonely
talk to themselves.
As for me, I have so many
trains,
always set to make out of me
Anna Karenina...
As for me, I have so many
wings,
always set to make out of me
a poor and wretched Icarus,
downcast and hapless...
Or else as a last resort
a poet that's a little sad.
