Folds

Folds


The First Crack


Afternoon oxidative silence


The light dims on the living room furniture;

a thin layer of dust had been accumulating for years

without anyone noticing the gradual deterioration,

the slight shift of the shadow on the floor.


I look at my hands holding the glass;

the veins trace unknown paths,

as if they were mapping a new territory,

where the certainty of youth has now withdrawn.


There was no earthquake or deafening noise,

only a slight retreat of the joint,

a creak in the joints of everyday life;

where we believed time was an ally.


Now the silence gains weight and density;

we sit across from our old habits

and we wonder who signed the first retreat,

who left the window open to decay.


The crack in the marble frontispiece


At the entrance to the house the marble cracked;

a line almost invisible to those in a hurry,

but which runs across the entire surface

from the top corner to the base of the threshold.


There we walked for years with heavy steps,

thinking that solidity is self-evident;

how materials withstand repetition

and habit protects against falling.


But decay always works under the skin;

does not ask permission, does not sound trumpets,

he just takes advantage of the slightest pressure,

the invisible burden of the days that accumulates.


I stand and observe this breaking;

is the first official confession of the house

that nothing remains unscathed by friction,

that our architecture is losing its relevance.


Linocut of worn time


I trace the lines of the face on paper;

not like it was in the old photos,

but as they were shaped by the nights

where anxiety sought explanations from the void.


The tool deeply carves the material;

every cut is also an admission,

a removal of unnecessary beauty

for the sake of a harsher and more crude truth.


The irony is that we were seeking perfection

within shapes that were doomed,

while the true form is revealed

only when the first glaze is removed.


The linocut is completed with black ink;

the folds no longer hide under the light,

They stand there as witnesses to a procession

who learned to measure the essence in losses.


The arithmetic of lost hours


I add up the rest of the days that have passed;

I subtract the hours spent on pretenses,

in polite conversations without any reward,

in plans that never reached the point of action.


The rest is dramatically small;

a handful of moments of authentic clarity,

some meaningful silences over the table

and the awareness that the fund is in deficit.


We laughed when they talked to us about speed;

we thought the supply was inexhaustible,

that the days always promised an extension,

a second chance for the essential principle.


Now arithmetic becomes relentless;

every unit that is removed does not return,

and conscience is called upon to manage

the little light left on the painting.