Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

The Map of a Mirage The streets, the houses & the books, the possessed rooms, the inviolate joy  that inhabits gardens. Climate change,  the enigma burning on the wall  like a hunting trophy. All this, nothing more than a blink, a mirage. A foggy carnival, a congregation of elves,  the light sleep of an ascetic in the desert. The clocks have a mocking air about them here,  the almanacs are true satires, doors & windows close & open on the most confusing landfill. Remoteness, a sonata to the ears. Ah, the dream of the encounter was so short. What are these trifle thoughts against eternity?

At the Train Station In another life, I was a child. Crazy grass made me melancholic. Runaway ponies taught me freedom. I grew up inhabited by ghosts stuffed with promises. Laughter was ruled by too much daytime. I tried to open all my bags, repacked the past. I played chess with love and desire overwhelmed all heralds & read the letters of the world without permission. I exasperated closed windows. Haunted air took my lungs out for a stroll vivifying the evening ceremony. I became an expert in contemplation. Memory was my favorite map while rivers sailed in my pockets. I sat at the station to shout forgotten memories with other children as trains flashed by. Big eyes were my political party. Justice was unfaithful to us all. I changed dew's booty with the demented image  of an Elizabeth Bishop book of poems. Died more than one eternity. Looked at all the cities from the rooftops. In the space of my voice, it is always too early.