That Thing
On a cold night
That thing is lost
Its soul went missing
In the wild wind
So much beauty
That brightened the afternoons
That lit up the lights
Of our city
In the dark night
That thing is lost
In the old newspapers
Its voice has faded
The clothes hanging
On the wires
Greet the absent
Prolongs the goodbye
They say it’s gone
They say it’s here
They say it’s dead
They say it will return
On the avenues
They clean the windows
They open the balconies
To let in the sun
People pick up
Their tense path
The work echoes
On the concrete
In the melody
That plays sometimes
Asking for scissors
From the people
The neighborhood breathes
The times of old
The autumn clouds
That old dream
They say it’s gone
They say it’s here
They say it’s dead
They say it will return