El primer arbre del bosc

It was a small place, the furniture wouldn’t fit
The window, a perfect frame like Magritte’s
The couch stared at the novel
And lost its thread

Nights passed like cars on the road
The lightbulb balancing over the void
Dust steers over the things
From the weight of forgetfulness

The moon comes, the moon goes
Like a pendulum in hand
The rhythm of sleep
Facing the wind or facing the sea
A goodbye is always polar
But there’s still light
At the first tree in the forest

The lost admiral in a leak
Sailing inside a walnut shell
Drifting is just a poem
The bucket of the well

The moon comes, the moon goes
Like a pendulum in hand
The rhythm of sleep
Facing the wind or facing the sea
A goodbye is always polar
But there’s still light
At the first tree in the forest