Gitana

En mis ojos veo el mundo de la manera que me gusta: libre y abierto, como un libro. Siento el viento en mi pelo y estoy otra vez en mi camino. La carretera es mi casa, mi lugar de estar cuándo no sé dónde pertenezco. Mis pies caminan por los verdes campos y pisan todas las lagrimas y el sangre que estuve aquí. Sé que voy encontrar cosas bellas y tristes en las calles de esta ciudad, de este país multicolor lleno de historias.

Y mientras camino sonrío, pues recuerdo todos los amigos que dejé un día por las parajes que visité.

Hombres, mujeres, chicos y chicas que están siempre en mi corazón. Cada uno tiene su nombre, su historia, su rostro, sus ojos, su manera de decir cosas y comprenderlas. Veo en la mujeres hermanas de suerte, en los hombres amantes que tuve, en los chicos la chica que un día fue. En todas las personas de este mundo ha algo misterioso que faz con que seamos todos la misma cosa.

El polvo baila acerca de mi cantando antiguas canciones que hablan de amores y recuerdos. El sol ocultase despacio y es hora de buscar estada. Miro las luces de la ciudad cercana y empiezo a llamar en las puertas hasta haga una que quisiera recibirme.

Entonces les digo mi nombre y cuento mi historia tan bella como las que escriben en los libros: Una gitana viajando por el mundo en busca de la paz. 



Comentários

Postar um comentário

Postagens mais visitadas deste blog

Rant on Youth

I wish they had told me how hard it was to be young. I wish I had learned in school about this sad phase of uncertainty that was going to taint me if I chose the road less traveled by. If I didn't get into uni like many of the others, if I breathed in and out instead of just rushing with life without even breathing as I would have done otherwise. I wish I knew how bitter uncertainty would taste so that I could be prepared, so that I could know it's a passing phase and all. I don't really believe my future is dark but I have no real proof I'm on the right track, and if I could only find an indication of that. I have no idea what to do with myself in order to be useful, to become a productive citizen of life and the world and not simply a mediocre working ant, I want to produce yes but not for the system, I won't work for capitalism or the government, I want to work for people for my community my elders my children things that I believe in, I want to serve happiness. 
Leia mais

On the sense of continuity

I must admit that I keep hoping for it all to be the same when I am back. Or actually, better. I keep imagining little flashes of routine, you frying something in the kitchen the smell of melting butter and the shhhhh it makes when hot, wearing a shirt that's too big for you while the sun comes in through a window. Me decorating our new apartment putting flowers everywhere and buying tablecloth and pillow covers, me worrying about all the little details like bed linen and the color of the cups. As you say, killing it with kindness, being a control freak in the sweetest way, saying you can buy all the kitchenware you want but only in this specific color, babe, otherwise it doesn't fit the plates.  I must admit that I make plans. Of all the beautiful things I could bring from all my trips, of sleeping and waking up by your side, even the fights we'd have over how many times your friend comes over for lunch doesn't she have a job if she keeps eating our food might as we
Leia mais

On Pigeons

I knew pigeons died in the same abstract way one knows, for example, that pedestrians die. You hear about it, you can rationalize the fact that it is true, they must sometimes die, considering the risks and all. But if you haven’t seen it happen, the idea is as thin as air. And if something is intangible, it’s as good as if it didn’t exist.                 That morning, the death of pigeons came into existence for me. Happily trotting along my usual path, I encountered a dead pigeon. Crushed would be a more accurate description. You could barely tell it was a pigeon, or that it had ever been one, if it weren’t for the wings. Two widespread white wings, plastered on the pavement, on top of the zebra crossing. There wasn’t blood, guts or any sort of gory evidence of its once-living nature; just two white wings and a gray mass where the body should have been. It seemed hopelessly poetic: wings that once crossed the skies plastered to the ground.                 The next day, I p
Leia mais