For the Death of the Anthologist of True Love
How did you waste your last night again? In which regrets did you bow, to which temptations did you succumb? I understand you, I see it in your teary eyes, in your tears that dried your heart and skin and turned them, unfortunate man, into chirps of birds, into dried-up bacalao hanging off the middle mast to replace the flags of many boring fanaticisms. Bring here the two black diamonds you hold in your hands, they are love! And throw away what you hold in the pocket of your undergarment: it is the ledge of sin, the anguish that eats up the viscera of the passionate, the Arch of Triumph through which they carried your cadaver, Benjamin Peret.
Libros Libertad 