Tiempo de otoño, tiempo gris. Poema y obra digital de antonioeviesart [ESP / ENG]
Obra digital: Fuegos de otoño. Autor: Antonio Evies. Año: 2023
Todo esta en lacerante silencio.
Todo en tensa espera,
Es la hora atormentante de los vientos , es el tiempo que con su frágil línea, divide el verano del invierno.
Se forma un dibujo de ocres árboles, ayer nomas lucían sus vestidos de verde esmeralda, adornados con alfombras de flores y el dulzor de su fruto empalagando la brisa.
Hoy lentas las hojas, caen y una brisa amarga las dispersa, no hay vuelta atrás, solo ir rodando por las calles vacías, hasta caer decrepitas y vacilantes en algún espacio oscuro, frío y tremulo.
Este es el tiempo donde guardan en cofre de plata, los pájaros su canto. Donde la flauta de oro de la cigarra se queda abandonada entre grises ramajes.
Donde los ríos, fragmentan en diminutos y extraños mapas, su cauce seco y atormentado, ayer cruzaba los campos con su corriente brillante, hoy también espera en silencio la presencia del milagro del cielo.
Las mariposas partieron, no esperaron a ver tras las montañas los plumajes de lluvia, sólo quedan árboles vacíos, oscuros nidos desgajandose en lento silencio.
No queda espacio para nuevos cantos, todo ha partido, queda una espera, que vaga errante y se hace noctambula en el fragor de las horas.
Un hombre, vestido de años, con la piel cansada y los ojos vacios, ha llegado a cazar sombras, sus manos solo tienen una honda vacía de guijarros y la fe cansada como su propia piel.
La hora atormentante llega, la línea frágil que divide el verano del invierno.
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Digital work: Autumn fires. Author: Antonio Evies. Year: 2023
All is in lacerating silence.
Everything in tense waiting,
It is the tormenting hour of the winds, it is the time that with its fragile line, divides summer from winter.
A drawing of ocher trees is formed, yesterday they only wore their emerald green dresses, adorned with carpets of flowers and the sweetness of its fruit cloying the breeze.
Today the leaves slowly fall and a bitter breeze scatters them, there is no turning back, only to go rolling down the empty streets, until they fall decrepit and hesitant in some dark, cold and tremulous space.
This is the time where the birds keep their song in a silver chest. Where the golden flute of the cicada is abandoned among gray branches.
Where the rivers, fragmented in tiny and strange maps, its dry and tormented riverbed, yesterday crossed the fields with its bright current, today it also waits in silence for the presence of the miracle of the sky.
The butterflies departed, they did not wait to see behind the mountains the plumage of rain, only empty trees remain, dark nests falling apart in slow silence.
There is no space left for new songs, everything has departed, there remains a waiting, that wanders and wanders and becomes nocturnal in the din of the hours.
A man, dressed in years, with tired skin and empty eyes, has come to hunt shadows, his hands have only an empty sling of pebbles and faith as tired as his own skin.
The tormenting hour arrives, the fragile line that divides summer from winter.
https://leofinance.io/threads/@antonioeviesart/re-leothreads-tbb86kgq
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