Every day we look at each other
\nin a corner of Madrid.
\nWe both have a busy morning ahead of us,
\nbut such different jobs…<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I always hear the tinkle of copper
\nand I look at him.
\nSometimes I play that instrument.
\nBut not as much as it should.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He always looks at me
\nand I lose myself in the depths of those blue eyes.
\nMirrors of my luck,
\nhidden in a gray tangle,
\nthat the acid of tears
\nhas turned yellowish.
\nSmile without showing the teeth you don’t have
\nand his sincerity seems to say:
\n“This world is horrible.<\/i>
\nBut the best thing that ever happened to me <\/i>
\nis to be alive.<\/i><\/p>\n
\n<\/i>What will your forests be?
\nWhere he learned to ride a bicycle.
\nWhat gravel bruised your knees?
\nIn what embrace did she extinguish her cries?
\nIn those of the one who gave him life.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
When his smile did not show his horrors.
\nHe knew love.
\nO laughed with joy.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
What matters least
\nis how he lost everything,
\nor if he had one at all.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
And now he’s smiling at me.
\nKnowing that with a gesture
\ncan teach me more than any school.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I write without knowing what I am talking about.
\nAlways talking about ‘the others’ from above.
\nAnd I hardly detest myself…<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Sometimes I feel guilty about happiness.
\nAnd always,
\nterribly guilty about the pain.
\nWe who have everything,
\nand we just cry.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
None of us asked for it.
\nBut here we are.
\nMe standing,
\nand he sits on the floor
\nWe looked at each other.
\nAnd he smiles.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
United by a diagonal line.
\nDuring the brief time it is heard,
\nthe music of copper.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
PAULA CARRILLO<\/strong><\/em> <\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"