Los Debutantes

The debutant lovers started dancing yesterday. They spin, preluding the symphony of man and woman. With their first curls, tenderness wove them a net and a sonnet that secretly reads them Bécquer to quench their thirst. And nothing is worth anything around them, they believe they invented love. They keep the key to the mystery halfway with adultery. Tender display that in the afternoon shelters the park or the cathedral. Street springs that nestle when night falls in a doorway. Farewells in secret. The first kiss, the first goodbye. And back home, where the hours pass languidly in a corner. They whisper that name like a prayer and snuggle in their room, to dress the sweet hook with a velvet cloak. In my opinion, 'skill' is missing and that's why, without further ado, they wither and one of the debutants won't come to a date. Grief that someone's handkerchief will comfort. And the wheel of history continues, from the bottom of the well to the surface. Looking for velvet in the gaze and embracing against the pillow, with a smuggled love you spend your life DEBUTING...