It's all been said, right?

It's all been said, right?









Ramón López Velarde 


To the warm life that elapses

With panache of woman without letters or antifaces,

To the undefeated beauty that saves and falls in love,

Responds, in the intoxication of the Enchanted Hour,

An ant-cone in my voracious veins.


Fustigan the Desman of the perennial tingling

The Well of silence and the Swarm of noise,

Sliced flour as a double trophy

In the fertile busts, the hell I believe in,

The final rattle and the prelude to the nest.


But then my ants deny me their embrace

And they have to flee from my poor and worked fingers

Which is forgotten in the sand an icy bagasse;

And your mouth, which is denuedos erotic number,

Your mouth, which is my rubric, my delicacy and my ornament,

Your mouth, in which the tongue vibrates in the world

As Réproba calls coming out of an oven,

On a murky date of Cierzo Gemebundo

When I round the moon because stealing you want,

It has to smell shroud and crushed grass,

Drug and response, Wick and wax.


Before my ants desert, beloved,

Let them walk the way of your mouth

To rush the expenses of the bloodthirsty fruit

That from Saracens oasis provokes me.


Before your lips die, for my mourning,

Give it at the critical cemetery threshold

Like perfume and bread and Tósigo and cautery. @ N06/38156420285/In/Datetaken-friend/

Leave a Comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Do NOT follow this link or you will be banned from the site!