the liberation from the past is not mine, father
the bottles aligned on the back of the memory still frighten me
the clearness that you will be gone one day
and I will not be able to mourn over you
because a part of me
broke the gratings of childhood and now it bites from ease and longing
like from a poem which no one has called after oneself,
from that fear when you take the metaphor to the river
to wash away its meanings and a stream runs through the veins
then you come back a stranger
from the walls you yelled to up to aneurism
my father is a painting changing angles after fragile dandelions
and the feeling grows pagan from all disclosure
I am still afraid of autumn caresses
of unfolded leaves from the chromatic cheek
I align my fears and wipe them
in the cruelty of poppy flowers
the words come out beating their chests
where are you, father?
you, who have lost me so many times
until I loved you,
when you grabbled through phantasy and the only bud bloomed from the tip of the brush
orphan syllables come out of me
and mother is as beautiful as you left her
with lips full of ground
only I doubt the sky, the love and the suburbs
someday I shall come back, child, in a season
wearing bundles of snow