Black waves and snow
And the snow keeps falling. The snowflakes are slowly waltzing down from the sky, white as milk that I used to detest as a kid. The snow is falling or, better to be said, raining, flowing from above. It is covering the ground, cars, buildings, fences, faces, hands, heads, and goes on, and on, and on, and no one knows when will it stop falling.
I walk past the churches and old houses that are now deserted and abandoned, as the snow is falling down. A poem emerges in my head. “Sobre el asfalto de Madrid llueve nieve…” The lines flow before my eyes, clouding the gloomy landscape of a Thursday morning in the center of the city. I count the metre of these lines as I make and make and make steps.
Se me ha caído encima la madurez,
de golpe, sin darme tiempo
a eludir sus lacerantes aristas.
Madame Autumn burst frantically into my life and hit me hard. She left, but yesterday I found her coat on my windowsill, so I know she will be back soon. She will be back and she won’t forget to bring those words, those raindrops on my shoes, those umbrellas, those eyes I won’t ever forget, those clusters of wounds I have seen, those nights with lying on the floor, those bitten lips, and more, and more, and more. She always knows how to make me howl at the moon in despair because there’s nothing else left to do.
And I will be unarmed and defenceless. I always am.
Te puedes morir
si quieres,
mas no te lo aconsejo.
Sobre cobardes
no hay nada escrito,
- whisper I walking past the riverside. The ice hasn’t started to form yet, so I look at the black waves, close my eyes and see the sea. The sea that, according to another poem, couldn’t sleep, tired of counting the waves, and dreamt about a far place where no one knew about his bitter color. These black waves have already stopped dreaming. Forever.
Sobre el asfalto de Madrid llueve nieve.
