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The list includes The Threatened, 1964, The Enamored, The Causes, The Lost and Absence; meet the most romantic side of the great Argentine writer.
The world is no
longer magical. They left you.
You will no longer share the clear moon
or the slow gardens. There is no longer a
moon that is not a mirror of the past,
crystal of solitude, sun of agony.
Goodbye to each other hands and temples
that love drew closer. Today you have only
the faithful memory and the deserts days.
Nobody loses (you repeat vainly)
but what they have and
never had, but it is not enough to be brave
to learn the art of oblivion.
A symbol, a rose, rips you
and a guitar can kill you.
I-I won't be happy
anymore. Maybe it doesn't matter.
There are so many other things in the world; any
moment is deeper
and more diverse than the sea. Life is short
and although the hours are so long, a
dark wonder stalks us,
death, that other sea, that other arrow
that frees us from the sun and the moon
and love. The bliss you gave me
and took from me must be erased;
what was everything has to be nothing.
I just have the pleasure of being sad,
that vain habit that bends me
to the South, to a certain door, to a certain corner.
It's love. I'll have to be educated or run away.
The walls of his prison grow, like in a dreadful dream.
The beautiful mask has changed, but as always it is the only one.
What use will my talismans be: the exercise of lyrics,
the vague erudition, the learning of the words that the rough North used to sing its seas and swords,
the serene friendship, the library galleries, the common things,
theaacute; bitos, my mother's young love, the military shadow of my dead, the timeless night, the taste of sleep?
Being with you or not being with you is the measure of my time.
Already the pitcher breaks over the fountain, and the man
rises to the voice of the bird, already darkened those who look out of the windows, but the shadow did not bring peace.
It is, I know, love: anxiety and relief from hearing your voice, waiting and memory, the horror of living in the future.
It is love with its mythologies, with its little useless magics.
There's a corner I don't dare go through.
The armies are encircled by me, the hordes.
( This room is unreal; she hasn't seen it.)
A woman's name gives me away.
I hurt a woman all over my body.
Moons, ivories, instruments, roses,
lamps and Dürer's line,
the nine figures and the changing zero,
I must pretend that there are such things.
I must pretend that in the past it was
Persepolis and Rome and that a
subtle sand measured the fate of the battlements
that the centuries of iron destroyed.
I must fake the weapons and the pyre
of the epic and the heavy seas
that gnaw the pillars from the earth.
I have to pretend there are others. It's a lie.
Only you are. You, my misfortune
and my bliss, inexhaustible and pure.
The speakers and the generations.
The days and none were the first.
The freshness of water in Adam
's throat. The ordained Paradise.
The eye deciphering the darkness.
The love of wolves at dawn.
The word. The hexameter. The mirror.
The Tower of Babel and the pride.
The moon the Chaldeans were watching.
The countless sands of the Ganges.
Chuang-Tzu and the butterfly that dreams it.
The golden apples of the islands.
The steps of the wandering labyrinth.
Penelope's infinite canvas.
The circular time of the stoics.
The coin in the mouth of the one who died.
The weight of the sword on the scale.
Every drop of water in the clepsidra.
The eagles, the fasteners, the legions.
Caesar in the morning of Farsalia.
The shadow of the crosses on earth.
Chess and algebra of Persian.
Traces of long migrations.
The conquest of kingdoms by the sword.
The incessant compass. The open sea.
The echo of the clock in the memory.
The king executed by the axe.
The incalculable dust that was armies.
The voice of the nightingale in Denmark.
The scrupulous line of the calligrapher.
The face of the suicide man in the mirror.
The card of the tahur. The avid gold.
The shapes of the cloud in the desert.
Every arabesque in the kaleidoscope.
Every remorse and every tear.
All those things were needed
for our hands to meet.
Where will my life be, what could
have been and was not, the blissful one
or the sad one, that other thing
that could have been the sword or the shield
and that wasn't? Where will the lost Persian or Norwegian
where will the chance not to go blind,
where the anchor and the sea, where the forgetting
to be who I am? Where will be the pure
night that the hard labrador entrusts
the illiterate and laborious day,
as literature wants it?
I also think of that companion
who was waiting for me, and who might be waiting for me.
I will have to lift up the vast life
that is still your mirror:
every morning I will have to rebuild it.
Since you walked away,
how many places have become vain
and meaningless, equal
to lights in the day.
Evenings that were niche in your image,
music in which you always waited for me,
words of that time,
I will have to break them with my hands.
In which hollow shall I hide my soul
so that I may not see your absence
that like a terrible sun, without sunset,
shines definitely and ruthless?
Your absence surrounds me
like the rope to the throat,
the sea to which it sinks.
Publication Date: 14/06/2019
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