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The peepholes of desire close now
they have been sealed,
for fear that our footsteps will be stolen.
A thousand thieves for not creating axes of evil
sellers of calm
watch like vultures from their watchtower.
Like an unbeatable tightrope walker
I draw in braille the steps of the next mortal.
You have taken time to contemplate the moon
without frozen anguish on your back,
for not being able to play with its other side
which is surely the best Buñuel hated
he cut it into slices
leaving only the cover on the curtain.
Like an unbeatable tightrope walker
reading in Braille the steps of the next mortal.
If I go through the script by memory,
you go from door to door to look for yellow tiles
for an impossible phonambulator
reading in Braille the steps of the next mortal.
His realism dominates without revealing
it is my dream land
if they close the peephole
I break the window.
If I go through the script by heart,
you go from door to door looking for yellow tiles
for an unbeatable tightrope walker
reading in Braille the steps of the next mortal.
Like a cinema projectionist
throwing into the air the light that deceives us as it passes...