America is a road

Sometimes I wait on the side of the road and wonder where I´m going

Sometimes I wait on the side

of a road that was paved in this desert.

America is a road

It´s a road where I never grow old. They always play my music on the radio.

America is a road, full of tiny scabs and termites

Skeleton trees and cracked lips

It´s a road that sneaks through the heart of the forest

With saplings bended over by the weight of bloom

And tiny nuts hiding in lush branches.

America is not really America. It´s only a little bit of big America.

Strange names of many letters.

Whispers of Indians, ghosts of meadows.

It´s a road that I remember day and night

A road that is not a road, that is a river

and the slow slipping of wild time to be tamed.

America is a road full of earth prisons and same-same signs.

A people of roads that have shinny blind eyes.

Dust and moon glow inebriety in the high corners of mountains

In the dark grazing lands of lions and bears.

America is a road full of spirits and words, parading down the path of freedom,

Nibbling at the slumber of those that sleep.

Sometimes I wait on the side of the road and wonder where I´m going

Walking, slowly.

Sometimes I wait on the side and let the road go.