The soliloquyA long, long time ago
In this land were I live, the city
Reverberated with the art of each one.
Canvas painted with care and incautiousness,
Mixture of inks, fury and serenity.
Musicians, singers, in bars and streets,
Strings in a harmonic and sharpened tone,
Hands trading symphonies for food.
I was a poet.
Sniffed sensations between letters,
Captured sentences, expressions,
Each word kept a secret passage
To another world, so close
Of my artists of illusions.
Buskers sharpening guitars,
Drums of tones of delirium.
The singer of long silver hair,
The painter of dreams, the sculptor that had
Claws instead of hands,
Immerged in smokes and fog
Of tobacco and sea breeze, in the streets by the river.
And my friend, small, smart,
Played and slept with a violin, wherever she wanted.
She was free to go where she wanted to.
Life was good,
I wrote verses
With the sound of her sonatas.
The bells of the tower echoed,
Nobody expected that
One day showed up to be finite.
Until the da