Strange phosphorescence of old,
a tear precipitates your dress
and burns ******.
Remote, pristine.
Oh woman, you don’t exist on the branches of the sun!
Defenseless dances, almost pagan,
you burst turmoil in my brains
to drive me through your wild exile.
Asyllable that rules things maternal
on my definite, soft shoulder,
will liberate forever
a distant loss.
Bestow my pupil upon the secret
like fragile columns behind the valley,
it palpitates as it rises;
different such a scarce manner.
Shuddering from sugar and salt
the perishable breaks before me:
far-off minutes, light flesh.
Facing the instant, immutable land,
you determine your wandering as you go
over the light with no memory of the mother manger.
Translated by Martin Boyd
Book: Under the Light of my Blood
