Old Land
The old land, heir to the autumn
leaves, revolves around itself like a lark whose eggs have been stolen by a
dark mirage, so it has become the ghost of a memory that knows no breeze.
It sits in front of me every day, in its dark suit, breathing a sigh of
relief. It has become tired of its long journeys, and it has finally come to
rest. It is strange how old age, when sorrows have robbed it of its joy, allows
it to rest. They took out its soul, hair by hair, and it became dull.
The fresh water of its river was drunk by insolent eyes. And I, that old
time, stand among the fresh stories as a pale glass whose hand does not know
loyalty. I wish I had returned to my village before the harvest season. I wish
I had learned something from the warmth of this land.
Here, in the middle of this old earth, a cold desert and asphalt rocks,
I am killed in front of its eyes every day. Yes, I am the dark face of the
morning, emerging from the haystack like a great politician who knows nothing
about the myths of love and shame. All I'm good at is hiding like a pet cat
behind my illusions, behind a spring whose skin aging has stolen my view.
This is my old land, a luxurious painting of disappointments, and a great city of promises. I don't seem to see things the way I should. In other words, I seem to be a miserable old land.
