martes, 14 de abril de 2015

Hoy


                                                           Hoy
                                                           junto a la GRAN ventana,
                                                           donde el agua c
                                                                                 a
                                                                                  e,
                                                           vuelve de nuevo
                                                           a fluir
                                                           tinta, por mis c i
                                                                                n
                                                                               c o
                                                           sentidos.
                                                           Siempre he sabido
                                                           que este día existía,
                                                           que este momento inmarcesible,
                                                           había de alzarse
                                                           como corcho de espumoso vino,
                                                            s     c     d
                                                          e  p  r  i  n o su poético aroma,
                                                               a     e
                                                          por las 32 puntas
                                                          de la Rosa.
                                                          El silbo
                                                          solicita entrar por la cristalera
                                                          para estrecharme eufórico
                                                          por la buena nueva. Yo,
                                                          apenas le dejo una rendija,
                                                          para entreoír mejor su
                                                          me lo dio so ron ron neo.
                                                          Una t e
                                                                 l e,
                                                          enemiga mortal de la pluma,
                                                          lanza imágenes a través de
                                                          un muro, pretendiendo infil
                                                          tr
                                                            arse
                                                          por mis poros
                                                          situados en alerta roja.
                                                         Al
                                                         ter
                                                         nan
                                                         tes
                                                         ataques de querubines
                                                         son difícilmente rechazados.
                                                         Las sombras del atardecer
                                                         e x t i e n d e n
                                                         su mágica placidez
                                                         y las primeras luces artificiales,
                                                         comienzan a distinguirse
                                                         a través de los visillos.
                                                         Las máquinas rodantes continúan
                                                         incansables
                                                        quemando combustible
                                                        y un niño con impermeable verde
                                                          a o e
                                                       ch p t a
                                                       a lo lejos envuelto
                                                       en DESCOMUNAL pompa de jabón.

                                                       Mi inte
                                                       roir
                                                       esa parte, que se sabe que está,
                                                       porta las galas adecuadas,
                                                       para momento tan sublime
                                                       e
                                                         g
                                                           r
                                                         y e
                                                            m
                                                              e
                                                        tímido
                                                        intentando hacer frente
                                                        a la realidad.

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