Son bellas las cosas, bello los contornos de los ojos
y los contornos del rojo
los acentos sobre las a, lagrima de payaso
las pestañas de las divas
las burbujas del jabón,
el círculo del mundo es bello
el oxígeno de las estrellas
y la poesía del retorno, de los inmigrantes y de islas,
cercan lo invisible: la pertenencia
bello es el fuego
y el sueño
y la noche petulante atracada de los fantasmas
y el caldo primordial padre nuestro
que fluye en nuestro nombre
Under a red sky, I told her, ‘I want to die.’
And how I cry with no concrete reason why
And have bad dreams every night, or every other night
She said: ‘Broken hearts are easy to hide.
Broken hearts are easy to ignore.
See, when you break your heart, nothing really breaks.
Look at me, and look at you:
18, and dead – at 16 you were almost dead.
Just sleep with me in my bed,
And don’t say those things you said.’
…Who said pain isn´t beautiful too?
‘I found myself in a clear. To whom is all this beauty? Nobody can see it. And yet it’s so beautiful … maybe more than that, it’s a loneliness so ideal. Perfect, cold.’
’Once there were people living here, I knew them. I even think that I lived with them. When someone died, we cried. We were afraid … become less and less. We putted our houses together, closer to the way, we all did, we all wanted to live together, nobody wanted to be away, but I can not remember if that helped.