In the pious decimeter of the night

 

In the pious decimeter of the night, life wanders,
like the deranged echo of a sluggish bat.
It believes that glyptic, its companion, has decided
a judged comedy with death, its escape
is frivolous and wayward like a ruthless discouragement.
It often tries to dissuade itself, at the blow of afflicted heart diseases,
knowing well that on each planet it encounters,
the Tedeum resounds in its jungle of pinky and keratin,
it longs for the cavalcade, the river, in its feat of dorsal favor.
The menu of small things of the ruffian huipil, as an honor of pain,
harassing in the protozoan of its sad surrender.
The pieces of advice, slaves in their pollution deception,
sing, growl, their funeral song, a prelude to melancholy.
Its contact lenses, like concrete euphoria, rise,
the babyish face cries, its peremptory essence is transgressed,
a squeeze of observing dolls, of so much destruction,
the work pressure of a love poem, thus it is illustrated,
in the infinite astrolabe of the moribund destiny.
Ivette Mendoza Fajardo