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Wednesday, March 30, 2022

Another rescued translation: Lola Velasco

 I. The Hands Speak

This is how your albino hauteur
so bright it is perverse.  


Free of wrinkles, 
with a dazzling 
insolence of forms
you rush your dream 
to the crest,
by golden rays.

You flirt almost always 
in profile,  
and the sun
tosses you missiles
of yellow lust,
alters your color,
trying to confine you
to its dome.  


And the other acrobats,
stupid paper ballerinas,
clear away their final pirouettes
so you can show off 
your lone, aerial
luxury in flight.  


But night will come.
There’s little time left.
And your sophisticated, 
cynical beauty will pour down
false gold.
And you will fall to me,

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