Two hours later
The afternoon consumed its fatuous afterwards,
without flesh, or sin, or maybe;
the night sheaves like a bird
just about to emigrate.
And the World is an ardour of conches,
fast of pepper, laughter, and salt,
and the Sun is a tear in an eye
that doesn’t know how to cry.
Your back is the sunset in September,
a map with no other way round or reverse gear,
a drop of eau-de-vie used to
the disdain of the sea.
And finally the calendar and its ushers
dissecting the art of dreaming,
and the spur in the bar at the corner
and the bad habit of forgetting.
By the line of the heart
each morning a train is derailed.
And in the end it starts again
two hours after dawn.
Life has a languorous plot
that is never completely understood,
it tastes of liqueur and tousled Moon
that does not quench one’s thirst.
The night has used its bottles
leaving a shred in the wall.
Days has passed as sheets
of books that have never been read.
[Dos horas después - Joaquín Sabina]
Add comment June 27th, 2006
