The pain of memory

We are in the pain of memory,
spirits wrapped in the acid spirals of nirvana,
lurking in the dust
raised by the shoes of old men.
Thoughtful old men,
they hate the obols of tired rhetoric,
bestowed by angels who do not disdain ample cleavage
and phrases of circumstance,
to soothe the weariness of inglorious deeds,
ruminated with toil and regret.
They prefer the warm memory of shamelessness,
the rivulets of sweat,
the fluttering of skirts
and the rivers of beer
in the morning of the saint's feast.
They do not dream of immortality.
They only pray to preserve the
boredom of waiting, without caring
of the fire that burns the soul
and the calluses on their hands,
marks of the will of the practical man
or the fate of a rude servant
A life spent among the cries of brats
and the blasphemies of saints.
The desire for exodus to
exotic places, however, remains,
but no longer the yearning
for the wrinkles in leather faces
and for the demolishing fury of time