Días de abril

Days of April springs with the scar stuck in the folio, with the heart of a ballpoint pen on a napkin. Some darts that point to the center of the target, some short poems in which we learn that pain has seams to untie, frayed gestures that, when united, make up the fun garment of hope. The book of systole that contracts to expel sadness under the shadow of the verse. The book of diastole that expands like pupils when throwing itself, without shields, into the smile.