My most beautiful places
that adapt better to the last color of my soul are made
of all the other forgotten.
lonely places are excavated in the caress of the grass in a shade
wing, a song that goes,
regions whose boundaries rotate with
ghostly carriages carrying the mist at dawn
and whose skies are drawn names old words of love, vows
constellations burning like drunken fireflies.
Sometimes people spend earthy, raucous camp trains, oranges
prodigious board a couple on the edge of the sea, one relic
spreads throughout. They seem
illusions broken, torn photographs
cuts an album to guide the nostalgia,
but have deeper roots to soil that Hinde, fleeing
these doors, these walls are cleared.
are enchanted islands where only I can be the witch.
And who but those up the stairs to lofts in the clouds
where the light in the angry buzzing honey nap
reopen the cabinet housing the remains of an unforgiving history,
thousand times sacrificed nothing more than delusions, nothing but foam,
and test again
pieces like those costumes of the protagonists invincible
the circle of fire with the scorpion that dazzled the time?
Who cleans the glass with his breath and removes
sunset light in those rooms where the table was an altar of idolatry,
each chair, a landscape retreated after each trip,
and bedding, a shortcut to stormy the other side of dreams
deep chambers as nets suspended from the sky, like hugging
endless chases where I slipped up the feathers of death,
to reverse the laws of knowledge and the fall?
Who goes into the parks with golden puff every Christmas
and wash the foliage with a gray cloth was the handkerchief goodbyes, again
and garlands intertwined with a string of tears, repeating a fantastic
ritual between glasses smashed and absorbed diners savor
while in the twelve green grapes of redemption
-one for each month, one for each year, one for each century of empty indulgence
an acid taste less bite than the bread oblivion?
Why
who but I will change the water all the memories?
Who embed this as a cut between the projections of the past? Anyone
bartered my lamp antique lamps for their news?
My most beautiful shelters are lonely places that nobody goes to
and where there are only shadows that animate when I'm the witch.
No. 10, the night drifting (1984)
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