I longed for the catastrophe.
I looked at the sky, waiting for it to fall.
As a whole.
I wanted to hear the noise of clouds smashing into the mud,
I wanted to be sucked down by a vortex and swept away,
vertically, as if I were a crossword:
eccentric little girl, 7 letters.
My feet were motionless in the stream.
They were white, growing feet, weird.
Tadpoles whirled around them.
And yet I continued to long for the catastrophe.
I looked at the sky, waiting for it to fall.
But the sky temporized.
It spread clouds like charity and looked at me severely
with the absent-minded look of a tired father.
I prayed Jesus.
Jesus, I pray you, invite the hurricane at my table.
Let it fall down vertically, as if it were a crossword:
hurricane for Cecilia, 9, 7.
But Jesus lived elsewhere.
But I didn’t mind, he had his stigmata,
he had the holes of the nails and this is why I have always forgiven him.
Therefore, in the middle of the triumph of darkness
that frightens and invites to go back home,
I did without the catastrophe.
It was a delicate moment.
As delicate as the years to come.
Tiptoes, devils and dances,
but everything with the perception
of time changing,
of time becoming.