todo cuanto nos gusta y aparece

en las dulces tarjetas de larga cola

por donde se pasean el tiempo y la dulzura.

Pero no penetremos ms all de esos dientes,

no mordamos las cscaras que el silencio ac.u.mula,

porque no se que contestar:

hay tantos muertos,

y tantos malecones que el sol rojo parta,

y tantas cabezas que golpean los buques,

y tantas manos que han encerrado besos,

y tantas cosas que quiero olvidar.

THERE IS NO FORGETFULNESS.

(Sonata)

If you ask where I have been

I have to say, "It so happens "

I have to talk about the earth turned dark with stones,

and the river which ruins itself by keeping alive ;

I only know about objects that birds lose,

the sea far behind us, or my sister crying.

Why so many different places, why does one day

merge with another day? Why does a black night

gather in the mouth? Why all these people dead?

If you ask where I come from I have to start talking with broken objects,

with kitchenware that has too much bitterness,

with animals quite often rotten,

and with my heavy soul.

What have met and crossed are not memories,

nor the yellow pigeon that sleeps in forgetfulness ;

but they are faces with tears,

fingers at the throat,

anything that drops out of the leaves:

the shadowiness of a day already pa.s.sed by,

of a day fed with our own mournful blood.