From the Palm of My Hand

From the palm of my hand      
the afternoon eats its meal:
lean horse abandoned for being old,
nagging horse, dirty horse.
There is a trail
behind the hill
you see there.                                                                                  
In the open sky
three white tissues distance themselves,                        
saying goodbye.
Nostalgia has hung
its hammock in my heart
and my grudges
hastily sharpen their weapons.
Here the earth is broken,
land of acacias and stones.
In the sky smoke and clouds are visible,
clouds, smoke, and grief.
The footpath that zigzags
behind that slope
leads to your house.
The long cloud that extends across the horizon-
maybe you are looking at it,
maybe you look at it now.
My love for you is not the size of that cloud,
not that size.