Marcelo Morales
(Cuba, 1977)
Years back in a room of your childhood
your mother is still young
and she looks out at the window
while the pieces of bread fall on the table.
With your eyes you go over the objects,
those things you recognize,
it’s not possible that they will not be forever.
You let the bread rest on the table,
you see the veins in your hands,
you see once again the crumbs.
You know that you live,
that in a second you live.
And it is not possible that it is not forever.
Translated by Nicolás Suescún.
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