remains an idea on the palate,
is a taste of
discovered at the same instant in which the tongue touches
unmistakable body of appetite.
there in a moment return to the past
which smells and tastes of the hand lead
forgotten places
to borders and
past where a gesture , a face or a word
sprout the warm memories that reveal images.
Dead, perhaps dormant,
while you are alive, there again feel
a less intense but still bleeding.
see the stones on the road one to one
see old clothes and your face is synonymous with time.
There is a secluded place in the unconscious
willing to discover when you look at the clock,
when you realize the pages of the calendar,
when your parents die and your children grow up,
when life touches kneel and beg,
when you take what's left,
when you live really,
when
unaccountable and existence is limited to what is most precious.
The very existence
ideas are fragrance and it
you breathe and your heart
bites and your heartbeat in your throat is expected to fear the minute.
Vives then writing more in line with
in that book where you were born and who does not put any signature.
Of which doubts have read until you smell a new book on school time,
a hallway between classes at the end of recess,
to institute dormant in summer
the last review in September of all those you forever.
And is the taste of all things,
unmistakable fragrance of the ephemeral,
the victory of his life doing what job,
of our merchandise,
death an empty warehouse of memories.
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