por. Facundo Ezequiel
Those memories were eyes, were blue.
Thoughts of remembrance are brought;
Those harsh streets of cold needles were broad.
Thoughts even tears and endless joys.
Offered a man to the love of mine
A heart-shaped empty box of loss.
Did she take it? Thought of it as a gift?
She did take it, she did not think at all.
Are you remembering too? Are you, my love?
Walked more than thousand miles:
Passed the graveyard,
Passed the wasteland,
Passed the Élysées;
Heard distant voices crying loud to me,
But were nothing but whisperings.
And when the world was nothing but a round road
And when nothing was foreign to my senses,
I looked down my feet and didn’t recognized them.
The possibilities of caughting a glimpse of a future
Were as close to me as my own skin.
Then what did I see? What?
The boldness of my words may not be appropriate
But my crack-elated tongue does not rest at all
If any of the corners of my mind is blinded to the eye,
And I do not rest either, believe me y’all.
Those memories were eyes, were blue,
Were memories of a past not yet passed.
But I didn’t owned them, so I wrote them
For another eyes to wander among them,
Perhaps even those distant, unavoidable blue eyes
That my love eagerly danced before mine.
Those whom passed my way may read too,
So please remember thy cries and thy inner wars,
‘Cause worse than remembering all is to deafen a call.
I kept walking, I know I kept walking: I’m still walking
And I know I won’t stop at all
‘Til I find that reader of my soul that laughs and cries
When that hideous shy voice tells me to do it so.