In Time
In memoriam Luis Hernández
I never knew him.
I know that he ruined his muscles
his gardens.
He had a cyclist's isolation.
The chuckle of a mountain spring.
Maybe his only odium
was his goodness. We don't know.
(They said that he was ill)
He slept alone in his hotel.
In his peace he left the corner
to find a disguise
perchance to be the smooth sea, throng
or finest desert.
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