You traveled all that way to get here -
and you had to leave as a child -
with a small cardboard suitcase -
that you started to fill -
two leaves from that glade that was no longer there -
fake lipsticks and a case of gems -
and the suitcase started to weigh -
and you still had to depart -
and you gave yourself and you took something, who knows -
but the words that you had left -
all ended up in the suitcase -
and there they stayed -
alone rain snow and storm -
in the suitcase and above your head -
and legs to walk -
and a mouth to kiss -
you made all that journey -
to arrive here -
but now maybe you can rest -
there's a warm bath and something cool -
to drink and to eat -
and little by little I'll show you: -
there were only four butterflies -
a bit harder to die - BUT THEN THE PROFESSOR WAS RIGHT!!! poets are old gentlemen -
who eat the stars -
stretched out on the meadows -
of their villas, -
and they invent gypsies and blackberries -
to make themselves believable in the eyes of the world -
with their pain. -
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry. -
Poets get off on -
their memories: -
the house, the mom, the things you lose; -
and then they crawl on subjunctives: -
if I were, if I had, if I had and if I were, -
if we were alive. -
