Ah…the dust that covers everything!
Time is a scintillating dust of hands,
of morning light,
of wind broken into pieces of a chime.
Time is the supreme dust of green eyes
on the pages of the sea,
coming around the stones
of an eternal shore.
So it is a counterweight to gold,
heavier on the scales of midnight,
the end and the beginning of endless days.
The dust of my heart mixes
with the white dust of the sky,
gazing into the rain.
My heart was born when it rained,
and my arms were wrapped
in the afterglow of light.
I was not born so much,
as a leaf defined me from the crib.
A leaf peeking into my new darkness
from an old gray trunk of dreams.
And the leaf and sky
wore a face dripping in the rain.
And you ask,
what does that mean?
This dust of insubstantial time,
of a child’s groping.
And I reply, everything is a form of dust,
ideas with their little hopes,
words with their letters
glued to the page.
Color, from the great well
within the soul,
pouring from the eyes.
Everything is divisible into dust,
and everything comes together.
It is the sand thrown on the long
road of the shore,
where we leave footprints
dissolved into the sea,
saying he went that way,
gathering the dust of his life,
throwing it in the wind like fireworks
on the huge burning of the dawn.