Brotes de luna | Moon buds
Por debajo de las capas de relevo del desasosiego, esas que por su dolorosa adherencia reivindico como las rutas conocidas de mi extrañamiento, descritas en la piedra del pánico que abunda en mis ojos, están los brotes, tomándole sonrisas a la luna.
Filamentos de poesía a media luz, piadosos, vienen a rescatarme de las cebollas indiferentes y de las margaritas inclementes.
Ante esto, tú no, sino tu golpe selenita, ha de quedar a la sombra del sol, sin pan ni agua, en completa libertad de ocurrir absolutamente solo, ningún testigo en su desértico final.
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Below the relief layers of the restlessness, those that by their painful adherence I claim as the known routes of my estrangement, described in the stone of panic that abounds in my eyes, are the buds, taking smiles from the moon.
Filaments of poetry at half light, pious, come to rescue me from the indifferent onions and the inclement daisies.
In front of this, not you, but your Selenite blow, must remain in the shade of the sun, without bread or water, in complete freedom to occur absolutely alone, no witness in its desert final.
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