In the Middle of the Road

In the middle of the road
there is no space to plant
a guacamole tree,
but you can easily stand firm,
rooted, uneasy like a tree
broadening the space, extending your
branches of solidarity.
When your leaves or fruit blossom
and feed the mouth of so many,
you could spontaneously shake,
see with your own eyes
your days spreading like seeds.
At night time in the middle of
the road a fox may approach badly,
 severely wounded,
your trunk would alleviate
the hurt, the wounds so wide
that your hands
could warm inside.
Your trunk is shelter, an armistice
with no conditions, the fox would
sit for a while in the sun
and without loathing death
recuperate without pain.
In the middle of the road
the music band would launch their mallets,
colourful flowers,
the dance would detain the rapture of tyranny,
the steps would be the steps
of horses in the wild
of children in the fields
of women floating in
long underskirts
so long ago vailed
and all will take place
in the middle of the road.