The clock on the wall
Announcing that it's 6:23
The past is thirsty
And the present is an athlete without feet.
And it's now 6:43,
And the corpse of the minute that passed,
Tells me simply that it lives here, whether you like it or not.
And nostalgia sets up house in my head,
And it's 6:50.
Who told you that I
Was the dream that you dreamed one time,
Who told you that you
Would turn my future the wrong way,
Now it's 7:16,
And the corpse of the minute that passed
tells me that your strategy ruined you,
there's nothing left for you to learn except for how to live alone,
If you've still got the guts.
The home is not any other thing
than a cemetery of stories
buried in pits
which some call memories.
Minutes
how they heal the hurt,
as life passes me by
watching the clock,
Minutes
are the morgue of time
cadavers of moments
that will never return.
How it hurts to watch
that instant in which you're no longer here,
How much it costs to fight
for the things that will never come back.
And now it's 9:23
and the cadaver of the minute that passed
is mocking my desire to kiss
the photo that you left sitting on the [burrón]
My loneliness is your vengeance.
The ministry of time
put wax on my pillow.
There you encountered moments
even though it served no purpose.
Minutes that make fun of me,
Minutes like the fury of the sea,
Minutes are passengers on a train
that doesn't go anywhere.
Minutes like a salt rain,
Minutes like fire in the skin,
Minutes-- strangers
that come and go without speaking.
Minutes that hurt me without you,
Minutes that don't pay rent,
Minutes that, upon death, formed
the battalion of Yesterday.
Minutes that steal the light,
Minutes that erase my faith,
Minutes-- tenants of time
while they are able to last.
Minutes that enjoy death,
Minutes that have no place,
Minutes that smash themselves inside me
are kamikazes of God.