Ode to Bicycles – Oda a la bicicleta

I was walking

down

a sizzling road:

the sun popped like

a field of blazing maize,

the

earth

was hot,

an infinite circle

with an empty

blue sky overhead.

A few bicycles

passed

me by,

the only

insects

in

that dry

moment of summer,

silent,

swift,

translucent;

they

barely stirred

the air.

Workers and girls

were riding to their

factories,

giving

their eyes

to summer,

their heads to the sky,

sitting on the

hard

beetle backs

of the whirling

bicycles

that whirred

as they rode by

bridges, rosebushes, brambles

and midday.

I thought about evening when the boys

wash up,

sing, eat, raise

a cup

of wine

in honor

of love

and life,

and waiting

at the door,

the bicycle,

stilled,

because

only moving

does it have a soul,

and fallen there

it isn’t

a translucent insect

humming

through summer

but

a cold

skeleton

that will return to

life

only

when it’s needed,

when it’s light,

that is,

with

the

resurrection

of each day.

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Wonder, silence, gratitude

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