RHYTHM Poem by Juan Cristóbal Romero

What harm could there be in following
the hidden rhythm of things.
What harm in tapping with my feet
the beat of the rain pounding puddles.

What, in turning noise into beat,
blinking eyelids into tambourines.
Carrying with my feet
the tired passage of secret things.

Like when the cats were
one single ruckus overhead.
The rooftiles groaned like
pins of a broken piano.

What harm will there be in following the rhythm
of things. The form of the curve
the oat fields take
when the wind caresses their back.

What, in turning noise into beat,
fluttering eyelashes into tambourines.
Sealing with soft lips the slow
passage of secret things.