There is a man who lives in his own home
but despite this, he’s lost,
his mind inundated with marvelous things,
his broken reality,
supersedes the impossible.
What is real today,
is gone in the morning.
A bird swims on the air
behind a row boat
and the river comes winding down
in cascade of dry leaves.
The eagle begs clemency on her knees,
to the innocent dove,
and the frog sings a innocent melody
of disappointment and deception.
Misperception
discover that sunlight is cold,
and the notes written in the air
by the train’s whistle… freeze
and fall down in clouds of cigar smoke.
Nothing is important, everything is precious.
The street is adorned with golden coins
that the wind drags along
falling down again,
falling with the ringing of bells.
The clouds are walking
with their silver feet
crushing the innocent wind
in his endless peregrination,
and the houses’ lights are tempting,
create yearning
a long, long wait.
A dog screams his anguish
to the hurtful cat that jumps
and a woman
presses her lips to the mirror
to taste the other side…
her soul.
Reality is absurd.
It is tangible but doesn’t arrive.
A man steps off a sidewalk and
falls into a great abyss
where he can only get up
by paying a toll of nothing
where he can go out and through
a grove of sunflowers
that face, only, the moon.
There is a whirlpool
blown by an electric fan.
That’s why it doesn’t rain.
There is nobody to get wet.
In life here,
or over there,
there are people setting each other on fire,
running in front of buses,
screaming until all sense is gone,
where it is said that
to live is to suffer to be sane.
Or, it is life here,
where the wind
drags along the golden coins
that falls down again
with the ringing of bells.
I’m staying here
where the strange isn’t strange,
where each glance is a new day,
where the sane is insane.
I’m staying here,
laughing at nothing,
where nobody exists,
where nothing is everything,
where everything is gone.
Ricardo Vidal
