FOR CASTILLA contemplation of
Far: the burning of a valley on
in gold, slowly
see how the day and escape their hours
has written the night, that home
illegal to fire and
choose us to be part of his voice, perhaps
to experience the latest and unequivocal
spend the afternoon. I could not
how my eyes look
unprocessed
asleep in the light. Something tells me
in the bluest of the world heard
a silent language of centuries
and destroys us in deep pain when hugged
on the edge
time of its existence. All silent
and beats the stone and the wind comes and goes
once again the bell
far from a church, and envelops us
the dreamy stillness, the exact echo of a
distant voice. Who writes the words
no more in that eternal
fullness of a moment? Who holds
both infinite horizon? And only
answer me the cry of this silence,
the beauty and peace, while all
here Standing in front of me, and again as
total
watching a late siesta
birds and shadows, the deep twilight
miracle of this death.
Quirós José María Muñoz
The only seed
Col. strange islands
Ávila 2009
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