Poetry, in its resplendent transit toward ages confused . . .

Poetry, in its resplendent transit toward ages confused with so many footprintless steps; transients of hostels where women make bonfires on stones picked up after the war; it begs us not to ask for anything but exerts its own dispossession towards opulence; proserpine returning from hades with her hands still dripping with dark primroses; the madwoman knitting her most intimate bed in the burning bush.

Poetry, in its resplendent transit toward ages confused . . .

La poesía, en tránsito fulgurante por épocas confundidas de tantos pasos sin huella; transeúnte de albergues donde mujers alzan fogones con las piedras recogidas después de la guerra; mendiga no porque pida sino para ejercer su propio despojamiento frente a la opulencia; proserpina que regresa del hades con las manos chorreantes de primaveras aún oscuras; la loca tejiendo entre zarzas ardientes su más íntimate lecho.