Sunny bunches in your grins,
Woods in the sap of my curves,
Bright, quiet,
Returning in the midst of an argument.
My voice appeared sound,
Bare in eroticism,
Your writing was poetry
Challenging tenderness.
Picture of your singing,
Of your throat crying,
Of your hands entangled in the strings
Of fearful stress restrained. |
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II
At dusk, while journeying until dawn,
I beheld your nudity, and clad, I drove you to slumber.
In the edge of dreams,
In the crystal of lightning,
Stars and lamps burning
A sob, a path on my back,
And you touched my skin rythm as if it were a violin vibrant sound.Together
we explored paths of butterflies,
Bellies of patient glass,
Mended memories, and we encrusted in the sea
What leaves for good and stops being vigil in life's crevices.
Your iron waist circumscribed mine,
Glistening of hours turned into water,
Adding flowers as cliffs in your hands made of honey.
What lit the night, I really do not know,
Or what the stars were like when they stared at us,
But I do know every grin lit a fire in my skin.
III
Still today, from a faraway place,
I linger in the flour of your skin,
To glow as dawn,
With its knowledge about loving and wanting.
From
my Book "Travels and Dreams"
Uruguay, "La Quebrada.
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