Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

I am only the memory of a stone buried among nettles on which the wind escapes its insomnia.

On Borrowed Time I slept in a labyrinth made of milk and honey until by chance, you woke and wore me down with your hands.  I was a boy prisoner among your changing walls. Time, insinuating itself on your body, a cloud of dust. Thus my uncultured grief is new now. New, as if I were the first man that fell with his love from paradise, as when I saw such a sky already conquered by shadows aging my beloved's body.