As someone who has lost in the woods and it is late and is cold, no matter
leaves a promise to each scintillation enchanted grotto,
the whispers of the evening were the laughter of the missing
the birds change color just in time to no longer be the same, "
ever want to watch the fire within four walls.
not say that the journey was imaginable time overtones incesantemíente
designed in memory of oblivion,
but was rather see stories paraded during phosphorescent water,
always the threat of a paw on the verge of erasing it,
outcomes always dark in which I lay no hand
or am in a scene in which death has starred in all the papers.
There were prodigies.
Every trip includes nature reserves in the museums that haunt us.
I can talk, for example, human
it is transmuted into a cloud when he calls the distance, and it may be
who claim the same for each ear half the world, or that
propagating images of love, as a repetition of the echo, and perhaps
is the same in whose shadow grass grows only lost paradise. Each
burst your game undecided
each night without turning on your back, in its orbit uncertain.
There was also the message of the rain that fell at the same time [two places
and black butterflies simultaneous appearances on all windows and sunsets
contagious and spread by the tenacious pest in the landscape.
wonders and I could cite other errors not captured la crónica,
rarezas y ejemplares nunca domesticados por pregones de feria,
pero no quiero contemplar dos veces lo que vuelve del polvo o es rehén de otro reino.
Que repose intocado con su bautismo de insoluble sal sobre la frente.
¿Y para qué despertar uno por uno los accidentes del camino?
Quedaron señalados con un sello indeleble en los relevamientos del subsuelo,
como si fuera útil ¿para quién? el ejemplo o necesaria ¿para qué? la advertencia,
como si yo pudiera ser la misma aunque no cambie el río.
Entre suelos que corren y límites que se sumergen o que vuelan
las pruebas fueron tantas que no acerté los tiempos;
confundí las people, inputs and outputs, customs and tattoos;
with the demolition of the years built mazes instead of bus stops;
fell asleep and woke indoor harassed by hunting dogs.
At one time I paid my lights to the foolish virgins:
left me dark, I ransacked the sparrows.
do not think, no, it was all stalking, or bite, or ambush. Guardo
somewhere day and night as huge pieces of the party
and only should be deployed, brighten faces,
try and repeat episodes gestures,
as if someone had chosen to be characters in a dream.
While it may be best preserved
folded with the cuts frustrated
beautiful excursions and port plans and cities in which there is no one to host the dawn
and map the planet with its flora and fauna were stained
melancholy and unapproachable horizon tape.
Now I'm sitting on the grass and do my count insomniac.
Should I not have gone to the weather? Or change the path? Any step backwards
can reverse suddenly the prospect of a tale. All
glance over the shoulder may adulterate the innocent scenarios.
It's late and cold beneath the stars that still shine, it's never current, but
perhaps there faded away.
I'll go into the house. Someone is awake
squeezing the shadows, having the logs.
Is ignoble peace? Is sedentary fire?
No. 7, the night drifting (1984)
