---

In the nectar grows the moss,

there is no difference...

And I saw to the whole

that was glass and the one:

Fire.



Lost images that hang

from a subtlety similar to the breath,

where there is no wall that separates

the straight line from the spiral.

The genius is joined in the trip of the spiral

diluting between water threads that escape.



At seven thousand lunar radios

I listen to the beat of thy tears

that fall from the hell to the sky

and from there they rise

to the horizon.



From the rumor of the marine wolves

is heard that god gotten dressed of moon

before the ocean attempts inoculate on the night,

and the last breath of the candles fights against

the tenuous gasp of two lovers.



In the waterfall, the Nepenthes writhes in the neck

of the oldman that recalls

how young is the moment;

the sigh in the form of albatross to the outside returns

and falls precisely in the uncertainty of some lips

reddened by the blows...



It's seen that the Dantesque nights have been

lost as the poison in the tragedy,

returns "the lover, painting on his beautiful beloved,

resembles a moribund that caresses his tomb".