I grew up watching mountains as a promise.
A father wasted by the eternal fire on the shopâ€™s furnace.
A mother whose mother was mother on loan.
Loving slopes. I grew up thinking that nature was trees
In a park.
Sometimes I drive my car far,
Somewhere out of this urban ocean
That I am diving into wild.
But the wildest here is how we harvested concrete.
This pawn shop of natural spirits:
Landscape framed by the fast windows of the subway.
Today gave birth to another windy spring.
Does it matter anymore?
I sit neat in a terrace just to watch people come and go.
Rain left the asphalt clean and pleased
And I marvel at the flowers planted on the windowsills.
This is it.
This is him.
Springy boy dotting his landscape with promises of new horizons,
Where cars are grassy, buildings leafy and people flowery.
Daisies keep blooming upon manhole covers
And I still have hopes.
Spring in cities is rolling down the window
The miracle of sight.
Nice rhythm while life cheers up the prosaic tragedies
Of common men like me.
I guess I look stupid sitting in this park,
staring at that kid,
When he caresses daisies before he takes them to his mouth
The gentle bread of time that he will store in mind
For days to come
When spring is done and darkness catches his breath.
To see Ãngel’s other entry and his bio, go here.