Is it possible that this were all
of history, only a single day? Is the piece of news
from yesterday, lost on the penultimate
page, the fallen price?

They charge you for the force, the expired
rent of the land, they charge you for the things
that your lamp was dying to illuminate,
and for the heart and his young beasts
that graze, sighing:
the gunpowder, your lover,
shakes hands: "case closed".

Still you are what you were going to be, the same kind of
dust that relieved you of your clothing brush.
I will fulfill your orders, I remain
what you were. Bird of passage. Animal profético.

Salud, ángel de paso, irremediably intact.