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An eucalyptus leaf
it is between the dream and the allegory
Among the echoes of the shades of the air
Between the coffins or niches of the words
Among the brashes
Of a hesitant page
Among a black root
Of the ivy of the language
Among a century of uncertainties
Among an abstract date of destinations

An eucalyptus leaf
It fits in the luck of a pack of cards.

The sea grows with its liquid eyes
The algae and the moss like a heath of salts
The sand like a mythology of birds
The shells like a spelling of metaphors
In the celestial leaves of the ocean
While the world nails its front
On undecided spectra.

The sea raises the foam in tempests
It makes fans on the rocks
It disseminates the water so that the fish fly
And the man can make diadems
With flakes of vertiginous salt.

Of the seed the rays of the chlorophyll are born
The unfortunate tremor of the sidewalks
The prodigious profile of the oregano
He makes blush kind of the beet
The green lids of the cress
The vaporous insomnia of the onion
The speech preservative of the lemons
The rest makes it the clouds and the lightnings
When they are hung of the hole.

The birds on the sea red lightnings gaggle
Constellations of secret foliages in the ferns
Melodies with night plumages
Grasslands like flakes of the time humbling their haunches
In the kites of the lamps...

I saw
I remain in a bicycle of sleeping pages
The fruits have a deep drowsiness
The humanity has bigger wounds that a hurricane
The deads are overwhelmed than a funeral retinue
As the stars that stroll in the humus
One can write sleeping clawing the moon
Without nobody the touch and arrive to their white skirts
The poems are knives
With those that it cuts himself the neck of the words.

A clock on a branch is a scream of the spirit
Reduced eye
In immense masses of pedestrians
A clock is an orgasmic glass of the big cities
Where people learned how to drink the time
In breasts of bubbling ants.

The stars have the symmetry of the silence
The tragedy of the adulteries after the soot of the rumor
The stars often are perfumed by the birds
When the rain harbors them in the temples
And the tablespoons of the leaves stop drops of dew.

I spread a bridge among on the hole
I make scrutinies until the words fly
The powder moves as the ears of an elephant
I poke my matter and the blood with honeysuckles
And I build as night watchman
An immense grass bale
To breathe next to the north wind of the horizon.


Pedestrians in a long hole
Remain silent cutting the horizon
For where they wear out the shoes

Remain silent without return
Hugged to the rocks
Of the shades

In them the wind descends
Looking for place
For then to lose them
Or to allow them to fall
To the aged mud of the memories

Remain silent without horoscopes
crumbled by the leaves
And dribbling powder
Remain silent wounded and mutilated
Without solid clocks
And white moons
Remain silent suddenly narcotized
For the hate
And for mushrooms in the retinas
Without nomenclature
Neither art museums
Neither distill
To distill the memory
Often remain silent worthless of Homeland
With gunpowder
Or a knife
Without witness
Remain silent lonely
Where dreams are plundered
And they drink irascible thorns
And from time to time alone from time to time
Vertiginous mysteries

Remain silent with steeples of ash
Christian as our America
Weeping as the prayers
Upset as the swords
Of the conquerors

There are in them
A calvary of starving
Where the teeth exercise of gods
And the sex of meticulous sacrament

Remain silent in short of here or there
Grasped to the delirium
To the gangrene of the faith that doesn′t move mountains
But rather it incubates blindness
To the peace that they give the deads
When they leave to that abyss
Without return
Remain silent in short
That they inhabit us
Proclaiming bones
And bitter sounds
As the night that disrupts
With their bites to the destination.


Our looks get lost
In the abandonment of the expressions

Our words stroll
In the corners of the air

The soul prisoner hurts
The absorbed blindness hurt
Of the anthills
The marble of the rain
The groan of the dreams
The wet veins
In their illusion

Perhaps in another time
Be revealed
Our own survival
The world that hurts us
The face
The mask of the sphinx
That it emerges
To our side
The blow of beverages
That they crumble our body:
Thirst of ash in the abyss
Of the rivers

From the most transparent or dark thing
The birds emigrate
The hole of the anxiety
The fatigue of the steps
On the vapor

We wake up with a sleepy light:
We sustain the ephemeral thing

The shades burn
In our pores
Next to the tear
That it springs from the disgrace

Our looks get lost
In other faces
In another abyss of gallops
Where dust clouds are born
And one cries yearning other skies

One is also born in the looks
It knows it the body that it turns pale
Or it perspires
They know it the sunflowers of the eyes
When they extend
Their lids
On the grass
Or the grates

It knows it the hope when it copulates
It knows it January and every month
It knows it the red one
That it burns in the wood
They know it the keys
That they pull up the bolt
Of the tears
It also knows it the rust
Of the dream
Or the brightness of the spikes

Lastly to look we pay a price
To speak another
And in that to look and to speak
The metamorphosis is unravelled of what we are
Until finishing as a dry tree:
Nostalgia of the life
Emanation of ash
Groan of the wound
That It opens us
Wide open
The world.


In the darkness of the instants
The words that fly in the bodies
In the thirst and the water
In the salt of the destination
It is the same thing

The gulls leave fastened their eyes
In the lips
In the fatigue of the night
Shades and names
They are the same thing:

The silence is an imam of lights
That it makes us see the dark encouragement
Of the things
Of the realities:

The holes
The residuals of the life
The shells of the firmament
The strange asylums of the city
The eyes on the walls
Looking for the volatility

To die or to get lost in the fatigue
Of the clocks
It is the same thing

One looks at you with the out light of the rattle
Tired dog
Forest with pain to absence of rivers
To bird looking for den
In the candlewick of yellow candles
And although a gleam of sun
Leave the pupils
The vertigo of the fright discourages
It is the same thing that to tremble
On the edge of a narrow pass
To lose the dreams
Or the sky
It is the same thing

It is the same thing to give a hawk scream
Or to swim in the fear of the fish
To disappear attracted by the bleakness
To be frightened of the roar of oneself

To be shade
Or I dream
It is the same thing

When the tempest suffocates
The premonitions
When the cold is thirsty of bones
When the tears drip
In the piercing fog of the backs
When the atria and the whorehouse bleed
When the teeth bite the streets

It is the same thing

To look to the city from doors or windows
In both one is an island
Where the orphanage
It burns all vestment

It is the same thing…


It is necessary so much to travel
To achieve the forgetfulness
Infinite passageway
Of tunnels
And contrary

The life is gone
The today′s lack that we live
It plays us to undress the shades
The alone bodies
In the twilight
The eyes of the night
It blinds in their mercenary expressions
Looking at the life
From an embankment of ash

When we intend the forgetfulness
A breeze retraces faces
Without responding
The light
It goes forming small
Ravings in the rough fight
Remote blows the rumor
Of the birds
Among the leaves of the chest
And the shades of the lids in the temples
That they burn the skin of what we are

We sometimes contain the march
To take step
At the time that it dies
To the clock that devours fires
To the hesitant light of the face
That it converts
To the rainbow
In gray bodies
In soaked handkerchiefs of fatigues

One is robbed of roads
And companies
Of so many night possessions
One is robbed
Of tears
Of the eyes that drag shades

The forgetfulness is another face
Coming closer to the mouth
To knit another age
And other deliriums
Not less illuminated
That a burned night of flashes
But also
The forgetfulness
It is a forest that we take
In our backs
And at times their shades burn us
Because at some time it consumed bodies
And the light that hurts in cold shade

If we want to see in the hole of the time
It will surely have beaten
That they turn off the eyes
And tired lips
That they no longer demolish walls…

André Cruchaga

Copyright © Todos los derechos reservados.

Publicado el: 09-05-2004
Última modificación: 00-00-0000

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