There are also moments when we leave behind
words of love and silences
to talk about poetry.
You rest your voice in the past
and recall the title of a book,
The story behind some verses,
adolescent nights of the singer-songwriters,
the importance that poets and protestors
hold in your life.
I speak to you of commas and case,
of images that exceed or that lack,
of the need to find the rhythm
that will support the story,
just as hands support
the dampness and the walls of a sandcastle.
I also recall some verses
in the nights where commas and case,
metaphors and rhyme,
warmed my home,
kept me company,
knew how to convince me
with your same power of seduction.
I know that other poets
disguise themselves as poets,
they go to their offices of silence
they manage their banks of brilliance,
they calculate with essence
the balance of their internal assets,
they are the torch bearers of the kings and gods
or they are the tongue of hell.
Do they have souls?
I am content to have you
and to have a conscience.
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