Reino de Tadavía

A planetary angle is spinning,
beating the walls of infinity,
peeling the mother-of-pearl from the inventory,
violating the calm of the prescribed.

Certain high pressures are spinning,
in the swirling clouds,
time's mischief shuffling:
there are precedents of cyclones.

Old obscene, moralizing men cry,
souls crucified in the fifties,
tongues submerged in eager
slobbering for the sex of the nineties.
Sleeping children cry, well wrapped
in the eternal illusion of becoming better,
but no one is saved from the forced step:
you have to grow up dancing with bitterness.

Rafters, Christmases, absolutism,
baptisms, wills, hatred and tenderness.
No one knows what communism is
and that could be fodder for censorship.
No one knows what communism is
and that could be fodder for fortune.

Among all the sad and the lost
the little stars approach spinning.
No one sees them advancing above the noise
of legal and outlawed stores.
The invisible system will have its price,
its border and size, its analogy.
Some call it God, others Commerce,
but for me it is the Kingdom of Stillness.
Rafters, Christmases, absolutism,
baptisms, wills, hatred and tenderness.
No one knows what communism is
and that could be fodder for censorship.
No one knows what communism is
and that could be fodder for fortune.