I feel like an archaeologist; the light burns yellow; waves of sand beat and dry,
Tears that the lord of time shed from his buried lament; vulture breath in
Orange covers me, shoes shattered, feverish aggressions; cling to me like
Dust, ancient sea of earth, of old earthquakes; even the ants are white; those
Blessed warriors; and the serpents, the serpents … my God! They are hairs of fire;
Habit of daggers; a female dog, sacred, being baptized by my ardent sweats;
The cloud bounces and regains its altitude; their ice crystalizes; please my
Love, tell me, why am I here? Please my love… seed remembering me,
Even dreaming, her hands sleeping on her breasts; the blood sprouts in cross,
Purified in you, scarlet emerald; the wound on awakening is not yours; the pain on
Sleeping is not yours; love, love, I covered our site with sunflowers, with silky carpets …
May the volcanoes flourish in your infertile address, that the mercurial rain, quartering,
Drips on the parched face, you are the liquid where the depths are lost, superficially;
My love, you are the foam of the wave.