José Jaime Valencia

This is the flavor of the afternoon when the soft breeze of your smile fades deep in the darkness of my memory – this is the color of my thoughts roaming homeless, running free, flying wild, just as you said it would be.

This is the sound of freedom; el ensordecedor sonido de la ausencia de tus palabras, de su lumbre y su relámpago, de su poesía, de sus bestias salvajes corriendo por claros de selvas y hundiéndose en lo más profundo de mis ríos. Este es el sonido de tu cabello cuando ya no está, para imaginarle arremolinándose sobre mí, para imaginar su perfume, para intoxicarme con él.

This is the song of the snow, and the dust, and the dirt, covering my skin with soft clothes of time and calmness, immobility, turning me into a volcano, lulling me, while switching of the time forever. This is the sound of time when there´s no more time, because it is pointless to have it.

I am a stone, and this is my song, but nobody knows it, so nobody will ever sing it.