Wanting to cry,
I bring my youth in my arms,
the cloth of my blood
on which my heart rests hopeful.
Weak, convalescent, strange,
deaf to my voice, marked by fright,
I arrive to my youth like the leaves
the wind spins around trees.
I knew very few words
to define the strange events of my ravages.
Shadow and wound, lust, thirst and tears.
I come to my youth and I spill
myself on it like angry liquor,
the blood of a beautiful horse,
water on the thighs
of a woman with tight thighs.
My youth does not sustain me, I do not know
what I'm saying and what I don't speak.
I'm in my tenderness like sleep is in eyelids.
If I walk, I do so like the blind
learning from each step I take.
Abandon me here. I'm glad. I expect something.
I do not need more than a worthy dream,
and incessant failure.