It's all been said, right?
#LANA//The Gala Star-GOLDPACK
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.
https://www.flickr.com/photos/142477218 @ N06/38156420285/In/Datetaken-friend/