Bretaña Street

On Bretaña Street, memories like whirlwinds,
twirl about the dust of Autumn’s eve.
There is no one here, except a lonely
Passerby who turns round a corner

and is gone. On Bretaña Street, the rains
are gone as well—there is no water, only
gray asphalt, whirlwinds, and passersby,
who leave no trace of presence here.

Over the rooftops, the crescent moon
unveils her yellow teeth in a dying sky.

I walk the street as I walk through a dream,
oblivious of the present, the windowless
present, with its tedious unleaving of the days.

I walk the street in search of water, but
the stores are closed, and the rains are gone,
leaving only dust, whirlwinds, gray asphalt.

Perhaps tomorrow the rains will come,
a passerby will not turn round a corner,
into someone else’s dream; perhaps

tomorrow, the rains will come again,
the Tree of Life will grow once more,
and reach high into that endless space,

where birds in Summer spread their downy
plumage in the brighter sun of warmer days.

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