The neck is restricted by a necklace
That is connected to a chain
With the vigor of the conqueror
That is still alive for the fury dominating him.
Appearing soon the crown, a material distinctive
To cut open the skin of the temple
And making him stand out in the crowd
That he never imagined could be part
Of something that later would be called history.
In the suburbs the udders are licked
Of leprous cows crazy with thirst
For blood, pus and bile of the mornings
Under the distracted eyes of cathedrals.
In the facade of the hermitage
An exasperating fire
In the dance of homosexuals
In the innocent prayer of a hermaphrodite.
The purest sentiments
Of one bearing an instrument that he doesn’t understand
And the difficult consciousness of the object used
That for knowing silences its steps in the rain
Watching attentively when others eyes sleep.
In the desire to return and another asphalt more
The murmur arriving but not commented
What he perceived thanks to his surrender
That he attained for paying a price
The certainty he wouldn’t have to share.
In the warmth of the skin
And in the disorder of the fingers
That crosses the fringes like saws
Of one smiling under the light of a lamp
As if what he lives weren’t more than his life.
And a monitor that knows how to wait
The time of the veins in tension
While nothing happens as times goes by
In which it doesn’t yield to defeat
As what is pushed is what it will be felt.