If I were a bird
free from heavy feet
I would touch the clouds
every day
even if it meant
my body dead in the bay
floating with the waves
rising and falling
to the beat
of another day.

Crossing the Malad pass
I grabbed my heart
and threw it against
the distorted window.

It remained there,
stuck as a dead insect,
streams of blood dripping down.

My pain now rides the bus to be seen
by bystanders, casual walkers
and old couples holding hands.

Not by him, who stayed
behind the mountains.

Here is the breeze again
and the smell of grass
of water of firewood.
Leaning
to unspoken music.
Crushed squirrel,
get up and dance with me
for an instant
before I lose your sight.

I had forgotten
how to rage
against the wind.
I was going to walk the road,
tamed as a wild animal.

I forgot I ain’t no road ****.
The trees run backwards in time
for those anchored in speed.

A veces escribo cosas
exageradamente malas
y sueño con la perversión
de que tú las lees.

Tormento de tormenta en el exilio:
me llamas con tu voz de boca en llamas.
Te quemas, me torturas, te desbocas,
loca sota en baraja sin figuras.
Auguras un futuro de horas muertas,
tuertas, yertas, seguras de su suerte,
estrechas en su muerte, hijas de calenturas,
de noches sin holgura y sin recuerdos.
Acuerdos acometo con extraños;
de estaño es la cometa de los cuerdos,
arrastrando su vuelo por el barro.

The day I left
I took one stone,
put it in my pocket.
As I walked away,
all lost
behind the mountains,
it became so heavy
I could barely stand.

I had to let it go.

I stopped there,
looking down at the road
paved
by so many betrayals.

Tus ojos son como peces.
A la deriva, me observan
un instante, indiferentes.

Tus ojos son como peces
huidizos. Si me encuentran,
dan un giro de repente.

Tus ojos son como peces.
Casi como si me vieran
flotan curiosos enfrente.

Tus ojos son como peces
que para encontrar mis ojos
nadan a contracorriente.