Nov 29, 2020
The Havanun Tales #18
Aaron takes a spinning top
That shed light
Aaron was born of a violin,
of the straw
carried by the wind.
The casing of an old tube amplifier
it was his cradle.
Aaron is a wool mirror.
The faces of the strays
they can find there quietness.
Aaron sings the songs
that make gnarled poplars grow along rivers,
that give birth to cows,
that makes the moon rise.
A bicycle without pedals is its companion.
Used to carry a crate
painted pink and white
full of crumpled photos
of places
that do not find place.
Full of spinning tops that shed light,
of small glass bottles,
of stuffed animals.
His favorite is a tiger cub
cotton and acrylic,
injured in the ear
from which rags and foam rubber come out,
that every day all over again
must learn how to roar.
Sometimes children steal his hat.
Before evening
there is always
a fairy
who returns it to him.
Aaron then takes a spinning top
and spins it.
And the top turns
to spread light
and joy and wine
and dance
above the tables.
And Havanun turns on itself
in order to always
remain the same.
And the hearts, people’s hearts
turn on itself to find,
to find,
to find the way.
Even the roofs seek the way:
Whoever finds a feather finds a memory:
