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Por ella fui lascivo y no he dejado puro ni un poro de mi cuerpo. In my lust for life not a single pore of my body remains pure. In the absence of hands, a new touch will spring forth to graze the intangible presence of our bodies. An oblivion of words will form a precise language to understand the glances of our closed eyes. Sleeping here in bed, our bodies will be like children huddled together as fear approaches Keep sleeping without seeing me, awake here beside you.

Y en el azul que esconde la evidencia yo descubro tu faz inolvidada, y sufro la presencia de tu ausencia. And in the blue that hides the proof I discover your unforgettable face, and suffer the presence of your absence. You are in me, a fervent pulse of my trembling nervous system, in my veins of stormy instinct, in the oceans of insomnia in my head. You are outside of me, like the slope of vague voices, of sobs, of edges of dark secrets, and the touch of absent caresses. You cover and uncover me, leaving no space without your presence, no atom without trace of your breath.

Further than the names and touches, than the gray spider of the pubis, than the red mollusks of tongues. Further than voice and vice, than strong chains of heredity, than the clock of age, of innocence. Further than the terror of shadows, than the luminous pulse of stars, than the subterranean scream of blood.

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Further than the torture of torsos, than the sea waters of kisses, than the blue waves of remembering. Further than the prison of embraces, than the eternal clamor of hope, than the smell of earth and branches. Further than frankness and cynicism, than the corporal tree surrounding around us, than the unquenchable thirst that defeats us. Tan lejos me distancio de mi mismo cuando estoy a la orilla de tus ojos que en la carera de mis pensamiento lo olvido todo Tan lejos es el mundo que me inspiras, que tengo miedo de seguir volando por sendas de dolor y de misterio y quedarme solo Es mejor que te quiera y no te piense, cuerpo a cuerpo vencidos por la llama del amor que encadena nuestras vidas.

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Muy cerca Es mejor que me quede emparedado en tu abrazo carnal que me destroza, en tu instinto animal que me consume. Further than the network of senses, than the exciting poison of hysteria, than the sweet bitterness we feel. Further than where my thoughts roam when I forget the presence of your form and I shape you in the air of my dreams.

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Almost at the cosmic border of beginning, in the mind of God, in the disturbing unease of light and silence. I travel so far from myself when I am on the shore of your eyes, that my racing mind forgets everything So close I no longer want to escape my body, or turn you into my dreams. Si arrastro lo que soy y lo llevo por el fuerte declive del silencio sin poder descansar con mis palabras.

Si me pesa la vida y ya no puedo la piedra de mi historia acumulada. If I drag myself down the steep slope of silence without resting with my words. If life weighs me down and I can no longer carry the stone of my long history. I have no hands, I am incapable of caresses and touching, I am thaw of forgotten snows, I am man without name I am phantom They can destroy your sweet-smelling vessel and turn your blood into bitter water like my blood Look for the peak on the blue wings of your dreams, and reach for the highest branch to pick the sweetest of fruit.

You are with me — maddening hell — trembling beside this charred body that does not feel the light of your look or your sharp, burning touch. Indifference — the death I feared — separates me from the your sobbing passions begging for my caress. Prisoners in this knot of agony, we are the echo of a distant love and we both cry together. You and I are no longer what we were together.

We are someone else on this hidden cross — trembling, lifeless, weeping. Indifference erased what we dreamed of and the knot of our souls has become an anguish that buries us both. Me das la brisa que en tu boca anida y no puedo embriagar mi desconsuelo porque tu llama incita mi deshielo y me quema la hoguera de tu vida. You give me a breeze from deep inside. The essence of your dream is not mine. Soy demonio que crece en tu sonrisa, el cielo asesinado en tus pupilas; la tragedia que amarga tu saliva con el raro sabor de mis instintos.

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I am the senile nest where your form is shaken — fuel of my fever — igniting the obsession of my desire and my envy of April in your cheeks. I climb the summit of your restlessness to lower your modesties, naked, and wrap them with a skillful, ardent touch until they return with the hunger that hounds me. And you are, you must be, I feel it: the human lily who expires in my night with the spasm of my agonies and waves of amorous phrases Quiero ser el cadalso de tu fuerza; tu sombra, tu tristeza, tu fantasma; el gustano que muerde tu memoria y siempre te pronuncie mis palabras.

Pero Santo o Demonio, soy tu centro; el amor con el odio de beberte; el viento que desata la marea en el desnudo mar de tu pureza. Y tengo que vivir de tus anhelos, sangrar tu boca, y contagiar mi sombra en la luz infantil de lo que esperas y en la cruda verdad de lo que gozas. III I want to be the poison inside you; the good, the tremendous, the impossible, the angel and devil in one embrace; serpent and dove in your green branch.

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I want to be the scaffold of your strength; your shadow, your sadness, your specter; the worm that eats your memory and then speaks you as my words. IV I am young in your body, I am your death: the specter who lives in your blood; the man who devours your limits like the wolf that swallows the lambs. But, Saint or Demon, I am your center; the love-hate of drinking you; the wind that frees the tide in the naked sea of your purity. And I must live in your longings, bloody your mouth, and infect my shadow in the childlike view of your hopes, the raw truth of your desires.

I want to climb the clouds of your dreams, take root in the light of your brain and enslave you with my thoughts. From one life I create another and the two form my being. A ciegas voy caminando por la orilla silenciosa de tu ausencia misteriosa donde te estoy escuchando. I walk blindly along the silent shore of your mysterious absence where I am listening to you. I know that searching accelerates my fall because my stubbornness to see you, to make your life reappear, hastens my own death.

Tu palabra desnuda y palpitante era sonido y eco, como si ya volviera fatigado de un lejano viaje. Todo en ti fue la vida de tu muerte, presentido y sentido un coloquio de sangre y de misterio habitando tu frente. You knew the expected delight of dying each day and had the power to look at death with your eyes closed.

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Your plain, vibrating word was sound and echo as if already returning tired from a faraway journey. The life of your death was everything anticipated and experienced a conversation of blood and mystery living within you. Your poetry cut like the edge of a thin metal blade not injuring the skin but within on its cold contact.

I hear your hidden voice; exposed, it scatters — more alive when unspoken, closer when hidden deeper. We do not miss our body, we do not suffer the absence of the skin which covers us; we are as we were before birth: eternal, alive with the fullness of heaven and penetrating like light in shadow.

On waking, none of us thinks that we were lying in the domain of death: through exhaustion, hardly agony, our reason is erased, our eyelids tenderly lowered, closing our eyes, relaxing our body, we separate from it to steal ourselves alive into dreams. How can I paint the hope born in my blood, the voice that circulates, my faraway stare, if the words are instances of agony transformed into echoes that die unexpectedly?

I would rather force myself to feel what I feel than suffer in silence and appear to be calm. A poet without words. What a terrible torment! My unexpressed voice has to kill me. If it was you, truthfully, the single cloud that paused its voyage beneath my eyelids and entered my blood, molding itself to my recent pain lightly, like a breeze, fragrant, almost the sound of angelic contact If it was you who, parting the dark quiet, appeared as if you were a spiritual image anxious to convince me that you go on, formless, living another life.

If it was you Los muertos, si es que vuelven, tal vez ya no conserven los peculiares rasgos que nos pudieran dar la inmensa dicha de reconocerlos. If they do return, perhaps the dead no longer have their unique features which would give us the good fortune of recognizing them. Who else could have come to visit me?


I remember that I used to talk only with you about the loving siege that death wages against our life, and the two of us would talk, guessing, making conjectures composing questions, inventing answers, only to end up completely defeated, dying in life from thinking about death. Now you already know how to unravel the mystery because you are in its lap, but I Tripping in the dark, we found that invisible space darkness forms with its wall of siege, and we found naked solitude all alone exhaling its empty beatings in silence. Nothing exists now and the two walkers, by different but painfully similar roads, frantically look for the luminous life of the fragile star they both put out.

One day, we will each tire of walking alone, lonely, through this eternal night and surround ourselves with our own lonely deaths; but then our deaths, with a new life, will save the star we lost from the shadows, and in its light we will already be invisible love.