Morir Todavía

The smallest thing is a mystery
and the sacred so simple.
The weeping of the cacti
next to the death's hussar.
When the coyote called at your door
it howled unwelcome notes
the shadows snatched away
for the sleep of the just.

You can't lock
the sun under a bell.
You can't postpone
the appointed hour.

It could be one of those days
your final battle
or that the larvae become adults
and we don't fit through the keyhole.
The heart passing through a tunnel
dark as a shipwreck
dying yet and not later
seeking relentlessly.

You can't lock
the sun under a bell.
You can't postpone
the appointed hour.

The dream's labyrinth
where
the demons of memory get lost.