In the Barber Shop

The respite is shortening
like my hair in the barber shop
with the scissors of withered seasons!
I am repeating in every side
decreasing in these mirrors
like a ceaseless corona's circumference.

On my table a broken vase
is counting the fades of flowers,
petal by petal,

and there is a book
with its pages like my days,
blank, with the parallel lines
to hang
the laundries of my wounds!

I open my windows
to the reiterative walls of these mirrors:
to an old woman
who has blighted on the desiccated stem
of her window,
to a street
of all my lost opportunities to continue,
to a chilled running after unsettling butterfly,
and to an unleashed kite
of the boy
of my childhood!

To an abandoned concrete foundation of a building
under the razors of sun,
in which my dream rises day by day
in the rays of the scorching field
like an oasis of a mirage
and an insatiable recurrence of a bite
from a fruit
that evaporates in the thistle teeth
of this thirst!