what was life

What was life
what
what rotten apple
what leftover
what waste.

If it was a rose
if it was
a golden cloud
and should have flowered
light
in the air.

If it was a rose
if it was a gay flame
if it was anything
weightless
that causes
no pain
that is content to be
anything, anything
that is easy
easy.

It could not have been made up of corridors
of sordid dawns
of revulsion
of unlit tasks
of routines, of credits
it could not have been
it could not.

Not that
what it was
what it is
the dirty air
of the street
the winter
the many errors
the miseries
exhaustion

in a deserted world

Idea Vilariño

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of the sensual world

Loveliest of what I leave behind is the sunlight,
and loveliest after that the shining stars,
and the moon’s face, but also cucumbers that are ripe, and pears, and apples.

Praxilla