LANDSCAPE WITH FOG
Confused desire in the body
subsists on the taste of bitterness.
A greeting in the middle of the street
that no one remembers.
is like the left hand.
They continue twisting their fingers.
But the wound does not close.
Life hears the weather’s confession
before choosing its clothes.
Hands gaze up at the sky
come together furtively.
Could this solitary presence be
the daring landscape of the soul?
Can it be true that calm exists
as a measure of weather?
What use is a foolish man
who knows nothing of life?
No one will take you seriously
if you don’t believe in what you’re doing.
No one will believe what you ‘re saying
if you show up in the nude.
CLAY AND MUD
Eyes merge with the gaze
that denies sadness.
Sorrow that the fog conceals
upon the shadow’s jaws.
Heaven, with its downcast eyes,
cannot perceive what takes place on earth.
Time’s hard-learned lessons
bite into soil when they fall to the ground.
Indifferent to weariness, everything is so fragile
that your reality may become nothingness.
THE LAST CIGARETTE
When I see you stretched on the floor
with that expression that seems to tell me
I lie to you because I love you.
I tell myself I’ll buy you a black dress
when I see you naked and a new pair
of shoes and some expensive perfume.
But when you fall asleep I write
these lines that walk slowly
across your body in dirty boots.
When I feel your wounded breath
as if you were a last cigarette
before smoking was forbidden.
Translated by Sandra Kingery. Taken from the book “No es nada” (2008)