A MY OWN RHYTHM

In the dusty world,
I feel that turbulent moment,
moments of wind, a slow compass.
Gradually raising the movement,
creating fragments of my own drum,
in the irreverent moment to jump and let go.
Throwing off ballast, leaving exhaustion outside,
pleasant instants of wind in the air.
In the heat of August, being the center,
like the cement that unites music,
in that violent and audacious rhythm.
Between unreal scraps,
the rhythm progresses.
Hearing,
the rhythm of the wind,
that wind of the heart,
drumming with fingers.
Peeling the body from everything,
leaving laments behind,
in the waves of oneself.
I feel the noise,
converted,
into music.
Happy,
turbulent,
first, slow.
The rhythm growing.
Beating on the stairs,
unreal moment to dance,
the heart sets the tempo,
and everything begins to turn.
Turning the soul,
in its concert,
in its music.
cadences,
of waves.
Music
that grows,
more intense.
the soul dances,
the heart jumps,
beats, in strokes.
The rhythm of living,
first slow,
then fast,
in the days,
that leave,
slowly.
and then,
fast,
light,
until.
the end
The rhythm,
of living,
that noise,
accompanied,
in my rhythm,
every day,
at last.