The bark of this early spring day moves in stealthy
—do not undo me!
soon will come the time of streets dirty with Jacaranda flowers, the heat,
and I will balloon and burst if I don’t find the obvious way.
This gust of March used to be a celebration,
now my enemy hides amongst foliage,
drunk with ripe words and applause
How do you miss a day of life?
No sick days against foul seasons
‘I don’t sleep well, doctor, I’m a zombie,
a man with no reference at hand’.
So much for songs and documents
plastic bags and filth in the pond.