domingo, 25 de marzo de 2012


 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.

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