It is a great luck not knowing at all in what world one lives

W. Szymborska

There are days when my hands seem like fans, emprisoning fractal light on my palm, they are dove
wings that make a last try to walk the square in which they wander, dying; some days they will pass
away the shadows of other doves. They will be chiaroscuros, lunar outbreaks caught in your iris,
where they change their textures, they become carnivalesque, like eating a light bulb and seeing
you enlightened.
***
It wasnt hard to adjust the bodies to the known voices, nor becoming the owner of other peoples
dreams. I can say that we saw the streets us being old, that we have walked over tricks and listened
to the noise that sleeps under the earth. One after another, those spots of light.

No fue difcil acomodar los cuerpos a las voces conocidas, tampoco apropiarse del sueo de los
otros. Puedo decir que vimos las calles estando viejos, que hemos caminado sobre artificios y
escuchado el ruido que duerme bajo la tierra. Una tras otra esas manchas de luz.
***
April is a good month for being born. My closest loves were born in April. They have the clean face
of the winter and they laugh putting the elbow on the table. When I think of them, I have my eyes
full of clouds, the pillow becomes a whisper that goes through the room. It is strange but my arm
over the head scares the funerals of so many dust on the record player. The white curtain has
never seemed to me a great thing, the only things that it stops is the ray beam getting to my books
and I realize that nothing belongs to me but some arteries.

***
With the years passing my other faces have been falling. The second time I walked in front of an
open field I covered my head with my hands. The shining of the water and the light bugs make clear
that my eyes have no root, they make me wonder if I will count the steps to my home, if I will take
the spoon correctly, if I will change face in front of the mirror.
***
Living in other pole is not important. One only has to wake up earlier, organizing days as I get old
and inventing a dialogue with you. You would like living here. You can embrace the music that the
glaciers throw. Day and night are all the same, they both resemble infinite light that fills the rooms
walls.
***
We will intone each ones perceptions. You dress in green and red and we go out to the rushes to
drink water. Do you mind the cold?
-Cold is a not opening eye lid-

II

I already showed you the interior of the city. It is a red ocean that flows like lava inside our head.
You feel the air getting thick, we approach the glaciers. They are twelve meters high, we had
chained them so they wont open when our steps crackle over the ice. This night we will see every
constelation. Your cold foot will draw light explosions on the bed spread, the music box, the gloves.
We enumerate everything that shines in the room. Cold light sustained with the strings of our mouth.
Close your eyes, I tell you, so you wont be sad. I get closer, I see your eyes, your nose, your mouth.
I smell tose winter days, when I was younger and better, there is fire under my ribs.

II
We have become old, I stayed at an edge, rising my arms to surrond the cold. It is not a flameobstructing cold. These are things that you will understand once youve known me, once you have
tried the music that fits me best at sleep time.
We can walk along and awide these coasts. The sand has eyes that cannot see us. I ate oatmeal
and I read Heidegger. It is long, the ocean; the stars move furiously, time and its monologue sunk
in our flesh. Today it is your birthday and I washed my face before you, then I think that if someday
we get to walk together, we will go counting the notes that fall from the buildings, you will talk about
Chopin just like when we were young...