Alma Novaes

 

No subject

There are countless spices,

Miscellaneous green and averse fruit

they are flowers of a thousand 

colors and without season,

of thirty-two stone souvenirs,

at night distant, empty...

too many leaves, too many grasses,

It's ageless nostalgia

to miss you at all.

Hummingbirds painting 

the ones without subjects,

mine. The heavens.

Bitter words, controversial attitudes,

Temper of spikes, tongs

and vultures that we have for company.

And when the season

He retreats and does not forget us

a certain autumn made of summer,

we have lost 

the lightness of the language,

We've lost the spring,

We numb the arteries

almost clogged, 

to the point of dwindling (...)

And we make it from the chest

a battlefield of love.

It's a lot of fruit, a lot of leaves,

Very chaparro.

That's a lot of harvest to

Such a rare sowing

It cancels out my nostalgia.

in Stray corners