Antares

In the distance, Antares, the great mystery long guarded by the veil of cosmic distances, cries out to us with the vigour of countless suns that, at times, live and die within the infinity of their cycle.

Standing there, an ice freighter slices through the swell. It glides slowly across the liquid horizon that expands from the most intimate to the absolute, brutally tearing the fabric of my chest. Impatient, it unbuttons my soul, leaving inside and outside on the same face.

From here, I see her. Mistress of the tide, masterful regulator of the back-and-forth of the ripples in a kind of celestial tap dance among the cliffs that winter, in the meantime, has taken care to etch.

There is a certain enchanted eternity in her eyes, a focus upon the small seaside village where a recent past seems ethereal within a sidereal universe. These are the whitewashed houses that, in the typical delirium of the night, rise like guardians of tradition, silent witnesses to fierce storms, raging winds, and to loves that defied the labour of the sea.

What she does not know is that ever since I drowned my eyes in the sea you carried in yours, I have stopped writing and singing about love.

About love as fleeting as the pale dew upon the poplars.

About the seeds that are warm in August.

About the passion that knew how to respect the seeds of the passage of time itself, that does not wither like the hulls of boats now returning to an old shipyard, moss-covered, from an unrefined serenade to the sea.

About the nomadic solitude scattered over the dunes, desires contained in trembling dust scented with flor-de-sal.

So I let myself be embraced by the tenderness of the things of the earth and never by the motionless city hooked by black lines where it has rained for many years.

From here, I see her.