The Dead Lakes

When the rain stops,
the curtain of water fades,
the sea that covers the land
and nourishes it, vanishes.

I see the pools slowly drying up.
Two dead lakes, I saw myself there,
disciple of the ferryman,
the one who steals my shadow
and creates the riverbanks with my body.

My mother told me about those lakes.
The placid waters that arrived
at the hour of her death
and often mistook her for the rivers.

That deep root that buries itself in the sea
like a reflection in the iris of the seagull,
the migratory flock that is lost and that I often become.

God, if you ever saw yourself in them,
they were like the beaches that dwell
in the basin of my eyes,
the coast that is lost without being my life.

Perhaps that is why they continue to reflect the seagulls and the ships.

God, if you ever find me,
we will strip the waters of their presence,
the eternity of the ships that cross the void.
The surface of the mirror where I remain immaculate.
The mirror's path to the pond.
The pond to the filthy pool of death.
God, I have seen, you have verified.
It is clear that the lake does not possess itself.