Murmullos

When the wind of memory shakes the ombú tree of existence
The soul fills with whispers
That tell things
From old times

Sometimes when hearing them
The clear sky of the eyes
Gets covered and for that reason
But other times, without wanting it, the hand goes to the knife

Whispers that bring to the soul
The troop of memories
They come trotting to arrive
They are always slow to leave
Whispers, whispers they are
That squeeze the heart

And if I try to chase them away
To the pack of dreams
Those whispers one by one
Kill all of them
The poor dogs

Only the cane controls them
And takes them trotting on its back
That's why my soul always thirsts
For cane to quench
The voice that comes from the past