By Eduardo Escalante
During the slow rollover of the morning,
I order the garden plants.
In my hands, several seeds.
I hear the groaning of the earth,
need to clear its throat, lacks water.
Everything grows dense, gathering light.
Gravity and time are working,
a leaf expecting to be born into the next inexorable instant,
sometimes with a somewhat musical impulse,
others, exhausting some emotional threads.
Fragrance in the air.
Everything with its own small moon, its tides
Atoms of alive dust in the air.
Perhaps only a wind knows earth.
The wind touches flowers, something growth or dies away.
Listen and look.
A sparkling set of conversions of things surrounds me.
In the afternoon, a butterfly plays on the ground,
Diagonals are in harmony with the pleated lines
of the sky. The patterns of the earth and sky combine.
The same conjunction spiral of how old
shows its renewal.
Lies are here.
Disturbs the streets,
lies come slipping
Leaning on the dead weight of
Air without colors.
It’s not just words,
not drunken dreams.
The eye bites and leaves the other
in the dead water.
Lies are rolling on the steep
slopes of the black nights.
danger is imminently devastating.
They tear us without
Life does not train people to
dearly love the truth
degrees where truth
Lies will remain the mud
splattering all over,
you will be trapped
if leaning and kneeling there
for a long time.
About the Author:
Eduardo Escalante is a writer and researcher living in Valparaíso, Chile; he publishes regularly in Hispanic Reviews (Signum Nous, Ariadna, Nagari, Espacio Luke, Lakuma Pusaki, among others); and reviews in English (StlylusLit, Writer Resits, Spillwords, Slamchop and in Gramma Poetry).