King’s Cross Station


You enter as if no one had,
as the day when it is defeated,
attacked by the darkness.

You are a premonition,
an indication of the future—
the destiny that will assault us.

The light passes through you
in a strange sensation—
the impression of not existing.

Maybe you really don’t exist
if everybody’s looks slip away
to the advertising on the walls.

The doors open at King’s Cross Station,
and you slide out like a moment
who refuses to attach to memory.

Remains stuck to the front glass,
your hard and angry look
that takes me to the next gallery:

an illusion belongs to us,
an uncertain grip.
Everything else we have stolen.

Among timeless memories, our fears present themselves, requiring their own space within us. We seem to be in the arms of an authoritarian mother while she browses them one by one so we know, accept, and love them. Even others’ sadness, in a strange contagion, asks us to be part of us.