Alberto Cortez Miscellaneous The Flies br/>Oh voracious old flies
Like bees in April,
Stubborn old flies
Over my childhood bald head
Flies of all hours,
Of childhood and adolescence,
Of my golden youth;
Of this second innocence,
That results in not believing in anything, in nothing.
Flies of the first boredom
In the family room,
The clear summer afternoons
In which I began to dream!
And in the hated school,
Quick funny flies,
Chased, persecuted,
For the love of what flies.
I know that you have landed
On the enchanted toy
On the closed book,
On the letters of love,
On the dead eyelids
Of the dead.
Inevitable gluttons
That you neither work like bees
Nor shine like butterflies,
Little, unruly ones,
You, old friends,
You evoke all things to me.

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