RAIN AND TEARS

With bawls, the rain shed tears from the loud
clouds in its maximum splendor
and in its serious overflow,
there is a beat at the rhythm of the water drums:
The nightmares kill without the proper infusion
and with the calibrated pistol. Nightmares kill:
The poem is the rumba of pain
The poem is the cradle of the centrifugal shooting star
The poem is the head of an infant coming out of the womb
even if it looks dead
is instantly hanging on its feet. Tears fall.