Poesía

 Wounds of love      
        This light, this flame that devours,          
        this grey country that surrounds me,        
        this pain from a sole idea,               
        this anguish of the sky, earth and hour,             
        this lament of blood that now adorns               
        a lyre with no pulse, lubricious torch,        
      this weight of sea that breaks on me,        
        this scorpion that lives inside my breast,       
        are a garland of love, bed of the wounded,      
        where dreamlessly, I dream of your presence         
        among the ruins of my sunken breast.              
       And though I seek the summit of discretion      
        your heart grants me a valley stretched below,       
       with hemlock and passion of bitter wisdom.