It's as if you are not here
you don't listen
and when you talk things don't make any sense
when did you disappear, when gone away from the world,
years ago I did not notice, or just an hour ago, 
have I changed or have you, or did our directions change, 
I am not even asking you to come back, there is no coming back, 
no place in the past for both of us
we can now let ourselves distance and hope to meet
or try to force it, but force is not love, I am not even disappointed 
or crying like I used to 
it's like I am living in a cave full of light, 
like a dream where waking up is impossible,
I am not in despair, not in pain, where am I, is this enlightenment 
or dissociation from the world, am I going crazy or
sane at last
 
 

first there is a sound
a familiar and distant
sound
coming from the twelfth century
in Granada or Lucena

then

less than a

second

later

there is a rhythm
like a lonely drum
in a high mountain
played by the leaves and the branches
sometimes subtle
sometimes noisy and unbearable

then there are the words
a line or sometimes two

when written the
words start flowing
as if they were waiting for
the door to be opened

sometimes
it is just one poem
mostly
there are hundreds
waiting for me
to write them
no matter how hard
I tell them
there are not many
readers left
to read them
they all want to be written
screaming at me
convincing me
asking and begging
but I have to make the choice
which ones to write
which ones to leave.