Somos

We are the bubble children of the end of history, x in equations
dreaming of fixed contracts, of dragonflies yearning
sweet kisses that hide
behind the glow of the bars of that bar where I loved you, island of resistance
carving future and promises into ice cubes.

And while the ultrabodies on platforms recite sermons,
there are those who tell us it's not the time
to talk about utopia or revolutions,
that it's an anachronism to sing to troubadours, to name Guevara
and as they strike your faith and your future in their forge.

And in these days the one who writes, aware of the privilege
of being born on this shore, believes that this will still be the time
of the fearful angel who sighs, atom spinning alone,
alien born on this earth, of the sublime dream, in the end,
of the man and the woman seeking another possible world.

And, in the meantime, the saints of lost causes debate truths,
armed with their ice axe they mistake the enemy.
Meanwhile, in the street, a rumor of wings flapping
demands its voice, a different voice.
Rocking utopias in the net asks and dissents.

And in these days the one who writes, aware of the privilege
to dwell on this shore, believes that this will still be the time
of the fearful fairy who sighs, firefly leaving lethargy,
Icarus escaping from an island, of the sublime dream, in the end,
of the man and the woman seeking another possible world.