At times
the afternoon is an enormous bee
that flies absent minded,
lazy
with its bulky womb.
Bee, silent and lonely
falling toward the night.

At times
the animal of the twilight moves its head
and sinks its snout between my legs
and pursues the girls in the street
and in the farm
and in the banks of the rivers
with its disguise of enormous and imploring man.

The afternoon advances as a boat
without oars and without hull,
without silences, without children,
without clocks without griefs.
Simply advances
toward the catastrophe of the light
toward the explosions of the shadow.

Other times
fall the padlocks of the hours
when the wolves forget its howls.
The twilight in the meantime hardens
and wears boots of steel to the night

at times
a bee dies and a sparkle
interns in the entrails of the air.
My nostalgia is a dish
that eats hot the morning
with its teeth of light.

Gocho Bersolari