The cold goes beyond our gaze.
not speak of himself. Arrives. Defines the ground.
Cold is a painting of Goya
which will never retreat,
the wind always blow
and stones may even shelter.
is a look near death.
is like not having your body,
is shattering.
this neglect is in the heart,
falling afternoon alone, without gaps,
and no words or wit, or even storm.
The cold is not loving. Go to your eyes and do not find them.
just has color. No taste.
Attaches to members, the soul, God's crust.
The man who knows the cold trying to remove their glasses.
The woman, barefoot, bare on the damp ground
when the cold is already inside. Not seen.
And near death, he looks cold.
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