The tent

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Outside, the freezing desert night.

This other night inside grows warm, kindling.

Let the landscape be covered with thorny crust.

We have a soft garden in here.

The continents blasted, cities and little towns,

everything become a scorched, blackened ball.

The news we hear is full of grief for that future,

but the real news inside here is there’s no news at all.

Friend, our closeness is this:

anywhere you put your foot,

feel me in the firmness under you.

How is it with this love,

I see your world and not you?

Listen to presences inside poems,

Let them take you where they will.

Follow those private hints,

and never leave the premises.