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a dream carriage


 An old lady has a dream cart, with an umbrella and a cushion in it, and two wings.

 With those silent eyes recounting her journey, she has lent me the wings and a hat made of sand, and I flew with her over memories and time.

 Soaring over war she spoke to me of peace, of slight smiles in the pain of others, of the sea and the wind where she challenged the silence, and then I saw a light.

That light belongs to eyes that speak of heaven, of sunset and dawn, of the time left to me, while dying, it passes over the anxiety of man.

I see a dog appear, biting rags, and furious people who turn against it, but everything ends if I take her hand.

She has the wings and I have the time, and both have a cart, holding a thought that now makes complete sense, an incomplete line that again finds its rhyme.

And the old lady, with her eyes and her immensity, without turns or pauses, aims straight at my breast.