The old man-inebriated of infinite-
flows into the vibrations of Tai´ Chi.
The harmony of his body levitating
glows the same harmony
of a cloudless blue sky,
the same harmony of a nest
encrusted in the belfry
where the stork broods over
its next travel of migration.
Not even dazzles him the metallic
brightness of the sun-lighted roofs
just before the end of the day.
Not even disturbs him the tolls calling
to the Mass in the Church of Saint Paul.
The old man flows back just a few seconds
to reality like Antaeus
only for taking impulse from the mud
He watches at the birds
still wet of rainbow or sunset,
starlings that write along the blue
with their wings
poems of love to the horizon:
‘What´re writing about
in the silk of twilight
those birds with hardly haste?
What harmonies of their flights
I could imitate
if I hardly achieve to imitate
the harmony of the stork
brooding on the nest? ‘
-The old man meditates and sighs
dissolving his self into
the iridescent vibrations of Tai´Chi.
by Joseph Ruiz