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De cuando el frío llega a quemar.

No se me anticipó,
tampoco lo hubiera creído.

Solo era un murmullo,
un eco vago,
empeñado en permanecer oculto
entre las partes más afiladas,
en las zonas más oscuras
allá donde habitan las esencias.

Al último trago también se llega,
siempre se llega,
y todo se reduce a irse a pique o aprender a nadar de otra forma.

Primero te di a luz,
perdiendo más sangre de la que tengo.
Luego memoricé la forma en que tus cejas se unen con tus sienes y el precipicio que separa tu barbilla de tu ego.
Y no sin mirar atrás,
te dejé marchar
flotando
como Moisés
por el Nilo.

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