Quarantine

I don't know if I'm awake or sleepwalking,
grabbing the hours that go by,
I can look at these images that are slipping away
in a darkness of light.

Light that opens paths to look at us
in front of a game that raises smiles
and tells us that we must be united.
My hand comes out like a bird in flight.

But there's a web where spiders trap clouds,
my hand is left helpless on the skin of your face,
while your eyes clear the horizon
that blurs in your silence.

I can see the streets now,
bodies that walk in the solitude of anguish,
in the laughter that is covered to prevent sneezing,
the greeting is an indefinite gesture.

Bodies that are in the process of shopping,
upholding the complaint that mortifies,
that reminds us of the dusty cupboard,
the refrigerator where a jaded light escapes.

A reality that stirs up emotions,
that holds back screams and tears,
where doubt dances,
thoughts that don't sleep.

Confined dreams,
stuck in the time of laziness,
where the nights are insufficient for rest,
time looks at us and advances at different rates.

His cane is a music in the afternoon,
when you miss the rain to wipe away your sweat,
to give you another landscape,
other hours, where paper boats jump.

Mr. Time measures emotions,
he's sculpting them, tattooing them, cutting them.
We won't be the same anymore,
when we look at each other again.

_Source

_{Images edited with PhotoScape y PowerPoint.
Vector: 2020 png from pngtree.com}