Foto tomada por Rami Owais
Los sentidos tan jóvenes
frente a un mundo se abren
sin goces ni sonrisas,
que no amanece nadie.
Luis Cernuda
Our hands became murderesses
the night when my lip and your tear
were asphalt
I see this memory projected
at the foot of the tree
where a squirrel moves –desperately– her legs
Florence and Mónica
organize the remains of a Christmas that never was mine
meanwhile, I hide you in the wind,
in the silence of the snow
Both women ignore
that in Lima
somebody stayed
alone in death.
No comments:
Post a Comment