Ya no quedan piedras en el río ...
Me importan los gorriones,
las memorias,
el puente que aún respira tus labios
con el olor de piernas húmedas
en el gesto de no tocarte.
La libertad
no es una caricia de pétalos
en la piel de los dinosaurios;
raíces enroscadas como vísceras,
muerte pudriéndome a picotazos el esófago,
rompiendo mis costillas
para salir al aire.
Desapareces,
y ya no quedan piedras.
There are no stones left in the river. ...
I care about the sparrows,
the memories,
the bridge that still breathes your lips
with the scent of damp legs
in the gesture of not touching you.
Freedom
is not a caress of petals
on the skin of dinosaurs;
roots coiled like entrails,
death pecking at my esophagus, rotting it,
breaking my ribs
to get out into the air.
You disappear,
and there are no stones left.
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