Sobre La Cuerda Floja

Always on the edge of those who live
never had a child, never a woman
he spent the day in the office
handling papers, serving coffee
his refuge a very old boarding house
full of ghosts and bread crumbs
his friend a cat that spoke to him
Nobody ever offered him reasons
to stay, to talk
nobody ever offered him their home
to not spend Christmas alone
the harsh winter that hit hard
sometimes found him at the police station
"wine is almost like love" he said
in pieces, in pieces he falls still.
Almost always at a quarter to six
when the sun wakes up on the platform
he lifted his small body
shaved and counted to a hundred
just to remember that he was
as awake as you and I
with all that desire to walk.
One night in one of those many bars
he drank to the last corner
he decided that his skin was flesh
and his soul just a motor
and he spent a glass all at once
and he got tired of the bread and the boarding house
maybe death is better.
He got into the first taxi
with impotence in bankruptcy
"the last night I'll be with myself
will be a great party," he said,
full of stars.
He got up early
had breakfast in silence
looked at the clock that watched him tensely
and on the tightrope, he thought again.
He sharpened the razor
cowardly hero at least
closed his eyes, didn't hesitate for a moment
and pressed the flesh, bled his chest.