miércoles, 30 de marzo de 2011


El refugio de tus brazos abuelita es un oasis en el desierto de mi niñez.
Tiene un pozo del que extraigo agua clara para saciar la sed amarga de mi vida.
Sé que sufres conmigo al contemplar mis heridas.
Heridas nuevas sobre otras heridas que estaban por cicatrizar.
Heridas físicas dolorosas, heridas del ama insufribles. Olor a sangre, golpes, latigazos.
Desprecio y noche navideña en llanto solitario. Niñez sin juguetes. Dolor en medio de la multitud.
El refugio de tus brazos salvó mi vida: medio siglo después, lo único que vale la pena preservar del pasado es la certeza de que me amaste.

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