extended my thoughts
towards him, the old man,
and I touched him with my breath.
I filled the air with my presence
as I inched closer to him
I took a picture of the silence
his maturity, of the little boy, once,
running in the fields.
I took a picture of the young man
old man's costume, of that which he
of that which now he wasn't
I took a forbidden picture of the
of his skin. In each wrinkle a
in each gray hair... a sin.
An in my trembling hands,
the essense of his soul,
mixed with Cuban tobacco,
with sugar cane and coffee beans
With the aroma of the open fields
That tenderly I touched
When I took that picture
Of the silence, of the past.
Irma Luz Medina