Arboles

These trees
That don't fill their pockets
With downpours
That not only live
Off green yellow thoughts
But sharpen the tips of the leaves
To get ahead of the
Future direction of their fruits.
These trees
That learn from the rain
Not to wet their feet
Even when the water rises
Up to their waist

These trees
Communicate with the maiden who is
In pain so she multiplies
The number of her lover by herself
So she can say
Beloved multiply within me
So when the emotion approaches
Its square
Captivate her imagination
The word with lips
These trees
Shelter the forsaken opinion
That so eloquently
Cultivates anonymity
Where the green wood of the rain
Sprouts flames
From the fingers.

Those trees
Produce the fabric and fuel
Of their fires with the impossible
Snow of summer
With what happens
In the April night
Of any month of May
So the impossible can climb
In the joy of its misfortune
The unassailable peak
Of what clarity doesn't reveal
Those trees
Mature their going in their coming
Learning to exit in their arrival