Where are you being read from?

Knowing that someone reads you there in China, in USA, in United Kingdom, and that you have a reader in Oceania, and that you suppose that Alfredo, for sure, continues to read you there in the next world, makes you feel proud; of that pride that is light and that lifts you off the ground when you return home too tired through that everyday street full of sore and broken cobblestones.

Feeling that today you have fulfilled your duty with those who slide their eyes in your lines, and that Diana, the beautiful, caught you in those scans of women's skirts and that Felipe said that you write like a sharp philosopher. Feeling proud that your lyrics today stirred hearts and transported to unconsciousness some of those who read you with slanted eyes, many ones who do not even know you, who have not seen your house, who do not imagine the place where you write, if you have or no gray hair or if you comb your hair. Some of them even think that you only spill letters in your notebook when you're drunk; and to tell the truth sometimes they are right, because if you don't get drunk with beer or tequila, you do it with those images that torment you from what you’ve seen this day, because you have become an expert in detecting sadness and bitterness in people passing by; maybe because you have experienced yourself many of them and when you glimpse them in others, you only say: “Ah! They are the same ones”, as if those troubles had that something that you easily detect.

Whether it is here near or there far away, in any shanty room or in an elegant mansion, you are proud that today you have been able to touch the very heart of that soul hungry for someone to just say: “You matter to me. I understand you. Yes, although I do not understand your language, I write for you, because I have suffered too”. And you do it knowing that if the joys are alike, the sadnesses, are, much more. Because you write from inside you. Yes, even if you´re drunk, but from inside, because from the outside you couldn't be able to.

To know that your poem, that one that ends... “To forget, that once, I was happy... with you” made cry that single mom and that lover who kept on waiting and waiting; and to know that with those lines you’ve fulfilled your duty, not with you, but with them; with that girl who reads you from China, and with that grandfather who does it from Oceania.

 

       ɷɷɷɷ ….  ∞∞∞∞…. ɷɷɷɷ …. ϰϰϰϰ …. ɷɷɷɷ…. ∞∞∞∞ …. ɷɷɷɷ