Six o'clock strikes,
frames, cups, coffee,
fog on the television,
cold feet.
Ten, two, a hundred
wishes of lunar dust
cross the blinds
without stopping
their ballet.
Won't come back.
He never left.
Every memory will be
a deserter,
perhaps a mistake.
Every wall, a waltz,
a ghost sonata
every spiral,
in every clock...
...a tremor sleeps...
It's already six o'clock,
the coffee got cold.
The lunar dust brings us
the last transmission:
For a second she was
queen of the recital,
she wore the silver again
that time wove.
And a curtain opened
defying the end
and in that gap of light
he dances again
he dances again
he dances again
reigns again.

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