Número 1

Sol, ¿realmente tu llevas la clorofila?
¿Dónde está tu linfa hoy
En este día de luz
que golpea sobre la nariz
de cielos azules y aguas
Por qué tu cuerpo no crece
tu cuerpo no se mueve?

Inmóvil de un cansancio de letras
de números, señales
Pero ¿cuanto amas esas palabras horribles
Que asì te hablan dientro?

Y en pausa,
Descendente, temblorosa, respirando profundamente
Me pregunto solamente
Si tu has ido ya.
Te perdí en el futuro hipotético
Entre lo que antes era aturdimiento
y baile,
y que se ha consumido
hasta devenir polvo.

Annunci

Number 11

Sometimes your odor comes to me.
Hitting me, punching my nostrils,
lasting for a blessed crumble of time
on the wings of a butterfly’s day.

I would love to keep it forever,
covering it under my skin,
under those goose pumps I have when I think about
the squared profile of your nose
descending, diving, into
the sugarly curves of your lips.

Sometimes your absence strikes me at the point
I perceive your hand crossed in mine
while following these crooked paths,
tight enough to not let you depart
together with the bruned leaves.

But I know, such a bittersweet understanding
of this memory,
and still a century I have to live
before my collar bone
will hold your breath again.