I was tormented
by the immense desolation
with which Aureliano’s ghost
had looked at me, the deep nostalgia
which that specter felt for the living
was as touching as my dream
of a city with mirrors for walls.
Months later when he finally
showed up again, he came to my window
with the disease of insomnia. In his bones
he had the forgetfulness of death.
His thoughts, monsoons of darkness,
were lying to me, imbedding in my limp skin
hopes of a new beginning where our numbers
increased from two to four, and wild dreams
strangled my roots like a banyan
with handfuls of hate.