To Gabriel José, in memoriam
Tragedy lurks like a wounded lynx.
Like the sea, tragedy
knows no fatigue, there is no rest in its mysteries.
Wyckoff, a silence, our refuge of peace.
In summer, the beauty of flowers and meadows.
In winter, sad and snowy streets, mournful roofs,
the tidy patio in wasteful solitude.
The nighttime train whistle was a celebration
and yet now is a cry of pain.
It was a cold night, the stairwell awaited the sound of his arrival.
The world, for him, so small, so strange,
his love sought to save it with a gesture of her lips.
A book about Buddha on his nightstand,
poems about the sea,
scattered photos with the school tribe,
the unfathomable depths of life in a handful of words.
Everything within him serene, his face a flame.
His time with us is eternalized by his embraces.
The torments of life deeply tired him,
so sudden, so early the defeat of his days.
He had the helplessness and sleep of angels.
I pray to heaven, may the loving path of his feet
and his gaze never tire.