It is night.
I watch the coldness.
I rejoice in this absence of desire.
The sunken eyes of wisdom
are watching winter’s arrival.
It is not that forgotten cup of coffee I yearn for.
It is not warm cover or sweet surrender
or passionate love affairs.
I do not yearn for such things anymore.
I yearn for things I have yet to see.
Where is that old heap of desires?
Has it been washed away?
There is a clock that sings
and a bird that ticks.
There are unrepentant shadows,
burials that never materialize,
ghosts swimming up the river,
looking for comfort through waves of reason.
Farewell, I say, farewell,
as I return slowly to myself.
© Ernesto González, 2009
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