Once, an old man heard a long and serious note in his blood,
He stopped, sharpened his ear and let him accompany him on his way home,
He thought: the body has something to say. He did not stop looking at the road,
He drank a quarter of a glass of water. He meditated: maybe a riddle flutters too much to
catch the aquatic mysteries of daily grammar. Why he asked himself. Maybe
death is calling me, it asks me to fulfill my destiny, When I was young I did not know how
to describe it, nobody asked me. I have used medicine wands that we will never know for
sure if they work. I’m enough to crawl on my knees or jump in a steep way or to live
redemption of the days. I cannot deny that I am afraid to say something,
and this because I already know the color of past religion. Surely every decade I have
counted on this. Maybe it is not death that seeks me, and it is my own desire,
broken down as a yellow line down, something like the arbitrary opposite. Maybe it’s an
alert because I have been blind or looking with one eye in front of a Chinese wall.
I want to make peace with my mind and dream without anger, everything without fire and
that the low tides are unfastened on my feet with a gentle blow on my knees. The water
washes me, and I am free of guilt with redemption as the four rivers of Paradise enable the
truth. I do not want to get stuck in a tunnel with my bones remaining in a cave stacked
without a name and without consecrating, neither age abruptly while I enjoy until the sun
disappears, attentive at night, not everything can be ghosts, but to be free in the floating
eclipse.
Eduardo Escalante, writer and researcher living in Valparaíso, Chile; publishes regularly in Hispanic Reviews (Revista la Colmena, Nagari, Espacio Luke, Lakuma Pusaki, Sur Revista de Literatura, Revista Ariadna, Aurora Boreal, among others) and actually is also publishing in Grammar Poetry, Cooldnoon, Spillwords, Slamchop, Writer Resist, Constellations, Peacock Journal, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Arc Prose Poem Magazine, and, in StylusLit.