El temblor - Marea

Subirá el azogue en cada estancia

Si nos ven entrar como elefantes perdidos

En busca de otro derrotero;

Quizá más inocente, menos resentido

Que no se desviva en lo vivido;

Que muera buscando un horizonte nuevo

No comimos nada: contamos veinte

Con el mercadeo más urgente, danzaron

Las uñas de los taberneros

Repletas de planetas, de tabaco y plata;

De la libertad que desbarata los sueños

De aquellos que nunca durmieron

Tan harto de ternura y de tanta picadura, amor

Ungido, me abracé al rugido que me enamoró

Después, me encomendé a la bruma

Que puebla el último atolón;

Que enviuda y amanece, muda, con nuestro temblor

Volverá el temblor

De la retirada, no fuimos hijos:

Fuimos la palabra y entresijos dorados;

La levantera y el calambre

Nos queda la certeza de sabernos vivos

Nunca vencedores ni vencidos;

regados

Por lo que queda del estambre

¡Qué hartura de tormento -tormenta tierra adentro-, amor!

Me cansa la caricia mansa de su resplandor

Que abrasa aquel renglón torcido

Que se vistió de perdedor…

Si yerra, me hablará la tierra, y llegará el temblor

Volverá el temblor

The quicksilver will rise in each room

If they see us enter like lost elephants

In search of another course;

Perhaps more innocent, less resentful

Do not lose yourself in what has been lived;

Let him die looking for a new horizon

We ate nothing: we counted twenty

With the most urgent marketing, they danced

The nails of the bartenders

Full of planets, tobacco and silver;

Of the freedom that shatters dreams

of those who never slept

So sick of tenderness and so much sting, love

Anointed, I embraced the roar that made me fall in love

Later, I entrusted myself to the mist

That populates the last atoll;

That is a widow and dawns, mute, with our tremor

The tremor will return

From the withdrawal, we were not children:

We were the golden word and ins and outs;

The lifter and the cramp

We are left with the certainty of knowing we are alive

Never winners or losers;

watered

For what remains of the yarn

What a lot of torment -inland storm-, love!

The meek caress of its radiance tires me

That burns that crooked line

That he dressed as a loser...

If I make a mistake, the earth will speak to me, and the tremor will come

The tremor will return