Drop to the wind the fleshes, burn in silences,
And, from the oblivion, jump
Without more without more handle than the unbearable pain
Of knowing yourself limited. Fragile.
Words are scars from where
Herds of hopes go away.
Fertile symphonies that get lost
In the horizon of the eyelids.
The day is a bag of incense and ashes.
Over thresholds of names, my shadow
Is being broken into pieces by the hatchet of habit.
Reason throws its net...
Merciless armour which chokes my cortex.
My wisdom bleeds.
My wings moan.
To stress the instants and expand the limits of the chest,
To fix one's look in the silence, and weigh anchors.
To not turn around to help the beat of kisses,
That have remained imprisoned between mirages and veils.
To feel that the wind plants thorns in your waters,
And the sea, darts to your sail.
To learn to carve in the log book,
Freeing voices, never chains.
So that nobody —ever— knows if, in the journey
The echoes of fear hindered me.
To learn saltpetre turns into sugar,
When you have rowed your life in open sky
With an alert blood
To discern if the beach will be my shelter…
Or... just sand.
© Beatriz Teresa Bustos
Beatriz Bustos writes from Argentina, and took part with this poem of the second Heptagrama poetry contest.
Arts and expression + Poetry