Mi Libro de Otoño

My autumn book,
my autumn book
travels through the silence
of some thought
when I'm with myself
drunk on time
and on the horizon
frontal of the mirror
my old years' forehead
and my new years,
and the eternal prologue,
incomplete and certain
suspends for a moment
the round letter
and travels the dream
of deep pages
grown with longings,
summers and north winds.

It's a paper dove
my autumn book,
silent and austere.

My autumn book
marks my exile
from the arrogance
of all that is uncertain,
from the falsehoods,
from the discouragements,
from the dark death
of those who steal skies
without seeing that from below
the morning star is appreciated.

My autumn book
is beautiful and slow;
humble stories,
birds without confinement,
pains that pass
without odes or rewards,
without brown hatreds
that dim the cedar
of those who depart
inside the epilogue.

My autumn book
travels through the silence
of my thought
when I'm with myself
drunk on time.

I want you to read it,
it's not simple, I understand,
it will hit you in the face
with all the January sun
the air hurt,
hanging in dew
so that your eyes
shine as you read.

My autumn book,
all that I have,
humble paper dove,
silent and austere.

It has a page
with a dot in the center;
I left it on purpose
so that your hand,
or maybe your kiss
writes the letters
of all my time.

My autumn book,
my autumn book
closes with that.