Fuga de una arruga.
Hay una
arruga que huye
de dentro
del cerebro.
Se
posará en mi cara.
Se
posará en mi cara.
Ha
huido del cerebro.
Historia
que concluye.
Con la
arruga fugada,
mi mente
se diluye.
Nada
fluye, nada fluye.
Si digo
nada es nada.
Nacimiento
del Ebro
son mis
ojos. Ohhhh.
Emanación
de dolor.
Ohhhh.
Agua.
Glu, todo
es agua.
¡Y la
arruga no es soluble!
It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.
don't I know it? I
answered.
I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night
nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.
I walked down the stairway and
into it.
-Charles Bukowski.
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