Time Travel Poem by Alexandro Johns

The past is a room
where lies my father's ghost
guiding me with a dark torch.

There's alive the time I left behind
over the Icarus' wings,
when I got drunk with the fire
of the poor bacchantes of my town.

In another dwelling of the past,
the barking echo of my dog Ulysses
continues to guide my return home,
to the meeting of my grandmother Juana,
that today she serves in my mind
the blue chocolate of nostalgia.

Right now, inside the electronic bustle,
I listen to the music of disoriented whales
moving toward the spears of the reefs.
And by the narrow door of the present time
I see going into the same river
the condemned people.

I say, about the future,
while crowds walk to the north,
that the omen of an atomic whiplash
by the Adam's error or the Mars' wrath,
can push to the Southern Cross
the definitive migration of all the people.