To write is to give meaning to suffering.

I redo the body of my poem like someone who tries to cure her own wound.

Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You’re farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I’d love to kill you –.

All night long I hear the call of death, all night long I hear the song of death down by the river, all night long I hear the voice of death calling out to me.

And how many centuries has it been since I’ve been dead and loved you?

Los muebles crujen. El cuerpo. La necesidad de darlo, la de amar.

Behold space trembling like a great madman.

And it’s always the lilac garden on the other side of the river. If the soul should ask you if that is far from here, you should say, On the other side of the river, not this one, but the one over there.

The night is the color of the eyelids of the dead.

Y nadie o casi nadie es amado de la manera en que yo lo deseo – exceptuando algunos perros.