And the soul is a burning where there are no sorrows
that shake the sea of our luck.
Odalys Leyva Rosabal
Under the cold umbrella, by the way, the grimace does not cease, nor the reed that ties hands and soul: everything burns and tears, your tenderness in a tram of dreams, the hurting eyes in the middle of puzzle of a sea sugar coasts claim us. I walk slow, stubborn, through a broken and shipwrecked train in the foam flap of a late afternoon sunset. In front of a window, of course, I’ve empty all my melancholy, and those intimate streets of your eyes and that pier in the vicinity of the wind.
From the book: “Broken distances” / “ Lejanías rotas”, 2020
© André Cruchaga