domingo, 11 de noviembre de 2012


Perhaps a sore won’t graze your body
nor your house blow up in your hands.
When fear moans in your ear
close your hand and throw your cry to the wasteland
But now, shush, I want to tell you a secret:
it is only the noisome night that speaks.
I want only to hear real words.
But shush, don’t say anything.
Now is the time,
the milked pomegranate brims over,
and the breast, in a thousand morsels,
brings the soul down.

Trans. by Jèssica Pujol

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