Leaves touched by wind

 

Father, is each all life precious or only that of the vile? Is it mandatory to aspire to happiness or just to expect unscrupulous ambition? And the children of peace, are they part of the crooked inheritance of those who practice wickedness? Is there any unequal law between your children and others who are also yours? Is there impunity for those who erect borders in a piece of territory or are the criminals compensated by treaties of discord? Is there a hell of Eden or are we all measured by the insanity of evil? Father, was it unlucky to have been born here or, at the end of our lives, will we thank the suffering and take it as a lesson in humanity?

Dad, forgive us, but do child killers also have children? Would they send them to war? And affections, father, do they know what it is to feel the umbilical loss of a dream? And empathy, father, can be contagious, like ambition? And if orphans are born in wars, why don't we get infected with peace? Dad, what is the mystery on earth, which the giant ball we inhabit, called the world, contains? What awaits us after the breaking of the veil, of the sky, of the womb that welcomed us and expelled us? Who rejected us or did Gods choose us to deceive? And what is birth, if when it promises life outside, it smells of death inside, even when we don't see the outcome right away and it brings so much damage? Is life a dagger to the orphan, or are we all orphans in the mystery and the final count?What sweet magic lurks between day and night, what doubt tears the moment, between a kiss and a whip, and who defines the category or the fate? If destiny is long or shortened by the closed ball, without an explanation, without anything to let us know where it culminates, in the rupture of an esteem, who brings us bread or sorrows, who tastes our tears and adds salt or sugar to them?  Because childhood is the teddy bear of our naïve ignorance, the glasses of the myopic in the large letters of the morgue, and we grow up covered by the lie of legends, of forever and never again, and leaves us between astonished and incredulous! What is love, what the stars are made of, where we come from, when we arrive and where we travel when we leave here, to the barren piece of land, stripping concrete and putrefied bodies, and if it is true that one and one are two, and love is one and unconditional, where are we born afterwards? 

Dad, tell me why the night gets longer, when we wear wrinkles and curvatures and tiredness, when we weave prayers in the winter dawns, overcome by uncertainty, we clench our fists and eyes and, despite counting the stars, the constellations, the big dipper is us, Cassiopeia shows us paths, we really sense, Dad, that the days are narrowing in this idea of end and cut,  if they cut short greetings and studied conditions, repeating in reverse solidarity, structural foundations, humanity, gestations, continuing, continuing obligations, keeping awake in us, if there is wisdom, the seasons, which bring flowers, leaves, fruits and uproot us, without choices, no matter how compressed and rarefied, the oxygen of life remains,  But why then, this chest pain? Don't talk to us about luck.

Dad, what do we do when we feel the time coming, where the crossroads, for seconds, stops the tuning fork, and in that octave interval, where are everyone, where are the others, where are you, that we do not see the blow coming, the dark wall, the white hair, the trumpet of the last transport? What will our pulse stop at, like a jolt on the train arriving at the station, the heart, without premeditation or improvisation, without net, without trapezes, without pre-warnings, what completion will it reach? And where will the groans full of fear of tomorrow flow, clouding the senses, the judgments of what was here and is no longer here? Dad, from the womb that opened, the principle of memory will disappear, as it did, there, wandering inside the hole in history, which we keep in the book of life, in the cloud, in the character of the wind, in the imaginary friend, in that piece of dust of memory, in the estuary of the river, and if I know that you are with us, why do we feel alone? Dad, deny us everything, take away this sad feeling, of abandonment and bring summer again, an autumn song, a rough sea, reduce the barbs and sarcasm of the lost and the found and bring us easy laughter, the modality of new beginnings, the dawn of dreams, because they are nightmares that we live, that live with us, tell us, is it by punishment or promotion? And where does the hope go, Dad, where is your affection, which because we are children, we so often do not see in the face of those who take care of us, what carelessness took you not to warn us that we were born alone and also left the same or is it all illusory, of this reality that they speak so well of and that is only commonplace,  unreal?

And that life can be a postponed death, a poisoned present, in which we do not participate, and we do not know anything, origin, progress, capitulation, nothing, nothing, forget! that the questions are so many and time forgets to grow, and thirst grows with loneliness and we only have a road bench, to sit and think that we know nothing, that no one warns us of this particular ingestion, of this gap where pain lives, when everything foams and then everything piles up,  Only Goths remain in the tide of our dreams, of the damage that takes over us, when we lose others, parents, parents, where the pains are kept, where our guardians hide, and the wounds that always return at the end of a day and only they never forget to return! Because parents are not like the waves of the sea that come and go every seven, that whenever they leave, they do not return, except to haunt the future, because they never left for us any safe future, and hope is only a poor worn-out word, which promises more than it fulfills. And it repeats from the beginning, this endless, colossal principle. So many dark forests, so much unvoluntary orphanhood.

We do know, we can't ask more, but answer us only this once, where do the arms, the branches, the oars of the ship, the ties, the roots that we take care of, interrupted by the cold in the blood that drains into the humus, grow, if everything is the blackout of the day, in the night of a body that forgot to dawn? You see, we didn't hear you answer! And tells us Dad, what love is made of, when it comes like a cross, and on our knees, reduces us to half a dozen murmurs, of wishes, of a present of which he makes himself the absent protagonist, and lets us fade, first he gestures the motivation to fight the torpedoes and the many fears and, arriving at the beach, right there,  In the sand, among rocks and ancestral shadows, dad, do we die?