Bajo el velo de la pluma

This morning, while my sounds contemplated your ears, I decided to sing the rhyme that chased away your fears, consequently creating a deep connection between your pupils and mine, you were looking at the white ceiling that brilliantly shined, stopping and turning to me the face of skin so young, when the well-known tune was sung. I conceived the moment as totally understandable, I used to chant it in the time you inhabited the female womb quite expandable. Then, our eyes were conjugated and my countenance was once again reflected in your irises. ♪ Daddy finger, daddy finger, WHERE ARE YOU? ♪ “Where have you been, father?” You asked. “Your presence has not been constant lately.” “I have been exiled from your daily regard, son” I replied, “for reasons someday you will never understand.” After this fruitful conversation, my vocal cords protested demanding my own abdication, and the cheerful song was turned into a tremulous voice, accompanied by a couple of sour te

I look at myself completly in the mirror of your eyes, that pair of stainless glasses reflects everything I am: My strengths, difficulties and miseries are brilliantly drawn in the galaxies of your contracting pupils. They do not need to be cleaned, those babyish tears of sadness, happiness and anger wipe intelligently such convex crystals, teaching me that crying has a magical and purifying effect: It floods the soul with saline water, washing away the sorrows in life. When your regard embraces mine, Emmanuel, I simply get lost in the bottomless mystery of our love, and you make my body float pleasantly in the universe of your sight. Allow my countenance to be always contemplated through the speculum of your vast irises, son!