I
Without accepting the simplest landscape
without getting lost in the most common
line of the horizon, music slips in the bodies,
brings light from your hair to mine, flows
in the words, takes us to a voyage; and again
the crowded world, the old chairs,
the scratched face of the wind, disconnected parts
of a house, an arbitrary relation, while music,
a river that eats the soil and separates, a river
that spreads its silt and joins distant parts of the earth.
Not even the simplest landscape.
Only the empty café, only the fallen rinds
of our endless conversations;
only you who my eyes denied.
Libros Libertad 