Winter on Sunday

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The plowed sky stretched out in front of the heart,
of the soul; it cages the glance,
hidden a coastal sun
among the cloudy lands
of this winter on Sunday.
The dust of the road longs to leave
pinned to a distant future,
overwhelmed by so much melancholy;
attached to whoever is undoing
the paths that fall inexorably
in that ambush in which our mortal dreams sink.
our mortal dreams sink.
Patient a bird goes among clods of earth
slow in the clouds of the rivers in between,
disquieting, dismembering
with pure future and wings of lonely and humble eyes
and humble eyes, that crowd of clouds
from where you will harvest
in your gaze that bait that grows
and sprouts uncontainable
by the high horizon of this beautiful life.