Un Adios Al Regreso

What hands will pick up the lost freedoms?,
perhaps the same ones that collect the dying stars,
or maybe they will remain there for the delight of some perverse angel.

I hold a tear in the palm of my hand,
who can answer my question?... when I ask,
what are tears made of?, that weigh so much.
How the distances taste like wind.

A blue neighborhood, there among the frost,
stirring up trills of past springs behind the hills,
restless to be alone.
Waiting for that child who left silently,
with cracked lips from chilblains and hunger.
He never came back to look for you, clod of grass,
through the deep ruts of passing cars,
pregnant with alfalfa and grass,
dragged by breasts, and the cut of whips that
left no marks... but announced something.
He never returned and who knows if he will return one year,
behind the hill, something dead and tired.
To drag the suns of his worn-out days,
and drink from the waters of the absent puddles,
and from his hands, the innocence of a cry flies.

What are tears made of?, that weigh so much...
How the distances taste like wind...