Into the life of others like a nomad face
we enter with violence, with caution
or aware of being the field where others pass by.
But we are always the foreigner:
Gestures and voices jumping to the road
and in every direction the moved forest
by the everlasting whisper of the invisible stories,
that go through us, and leave: to the fleeting touch
we call years, weeks, months.
We can’t retain anything nor anybody;
each glance is pavement of the road.
When everything remains, He will say that He was arrived.
The Ever Changing
AuthorLuis Benítez