El trapecio

The noise of the grass growing no longer bothers me,
ruin flowing in the springs
nor the flutter of the goldfinches clouding the veins
making firewood from bed legs and rudders
scaring all the snakes
and I climb the river stumbling

if I cut the trapeze ropes
it was to climb up and tie them and see the moon again
and cut them again a thousand times
and gasp like fish when it's their turn to lose

I unravel myself and the echo sounds in the pantry
I know he will come to take revenge
he knows he will find me, through the same alleys
selling tumbles, aimless, courageless, and unhurried
pouring minutes of sand and making a path as it falls

and the trapeze gives me small change
to see me on my knees, but I won't pray to it
of the wicks it has lit in the gloom
I am the one that shines the least, because I never wanted to see

and when the bramble of sorrow I hide scratches my guts
I mix myself for a while in the anchor that weighs down my life and never reaches the bottom

I don't care much, maybe to rid myself of the muck
that dwells between my ears
if perhaps to dirty my lap so,
if everything goes to hell, I can laugh among the stains
and let all of humanity die tomorrow and it won't matter.

I don't want to be more than the skeleton of what I have been
that whispers its suffering
only the murmuring of the crazed foundations
that no one has been able to deflower.