|
I have in my memory a shadowy
bird,
tangled in winter attire at the foot of the sun,
and its solitude leaks like a mortuary dagger
to the wind, to the flowers, and reaches no one.
The high refuge of her secret
harvest
was taken away by a Kiwi from the bed of the ocean,
until her sunflower dance became a statue:
like a dolmen she fell asleep at the edge of the sea.
My love, volatile shipwreck
of other loves:
I did not entrust my touch to the bubble of your ladder,
but left it relegated to the border of the night,
protected under the resin of an old apple tree.
I passed by her side many
times
and, living what other beings could love,
I kissed the stony nostalgia of her dawning. |
