30 mayo 2011

by Julio Cortázar
trans. by me

Tell me why I still long for you, why your name returns
like the ax to the wound in a bitter midnight visit
to the edge of a graveyard where larvae multiply
humid spittle, a never ending tab of blunders
tell me from that nothingness where you’ve now entrenched, tell me
why it’s enough for me to compose an elementary mechanism of syllables,
dial in the heart of the fog the digits of your name
so that in complete solitude
I am governed by the hope of a slight migration of fingers through my hair
by a fragrance from where the moss inhabits
By a silence that burns brighter than any of the vigils.

No hay comentarios:

Publicar un comentario