TIME

In the weight of thoughts that often become knots that turn freedom into a stumbling block, there within tangles where there will be little of us and much of who we were, we uselessly try to cling to one of those old, broken branches, so full of nothing, and they creak, the bones of what is already foreign creak, of what no longer belongs, of what blisters our day when we try to fit it, and looking back, that disaster, that earthquake, those ruins, where nothing can be distinguished, there is in another direction an open field with a sky bluer than cerulean, more intense than ultramarine, a light that becomes a compass, a path, and dew, a new breeze that yearns for encounter, the eternal present, fertile land, longing for construction, foundation, new borders, frontiers to the sky, we are always full of heaven and earth, of hells and heavens, of wars and the innocent child looking at his reflection in the river, looking there at the sky, his eyes, the impulse, to become reality, to become thought, brushstroke, father, grandfather, legacy…