La hora de las moscas - Marea

Relincha el pellejo, preñado de espuelas

Porque su montura es tan sólo saliva que puebla mejillas

Fundiendo los plomos, matando polillas

Es el sollozo de un pozo con sed

Gemido que atiza el rescoldo de la chimenea

Tinto de pelea, beso de morder

Es el alero que quiere llover

Es levante y tramontana y a la hora de las moscas chicharrina

Corona de espinas de la que comer

Es una blusa con nudo en el pecho

Es un largo trecho y desaparecer

Es un abrazo de navajas que sangra rosales

Un lecho de paja y cristales, pozales de hiel

Bebidos a sorbos y echados a perder

Es una brisa de Octubre que tira paredes

La ubre en que duermo y que quiere

Al pétalo enfermo que canta al toser

Trataron de herrarle y cerró las tijeras

No fue a cal y canto, quedaba la punta de untar las heridas

Sirvieron de lienzo las horas perdidas

Es el antojo del ojo que ve

Cómo muere solo a través de la misma mirilla

De la misma puerta que quiere romper

Es una mano intentando coger

Del amor algún pedazo y los tacones en la nuca de la vida

Manzana podrida, quijada de Abel

Que se entretiene desabotonando las claras del día

Para verte bien

Neigh the skin, pregnant with spurs

Because his mount is just saliva that populates cheeks

Melting the leads, killing moths

It is the sobbing of a thirsty well

Moan that stirs the embers of the fireplace

Fighting red, biting kiss

It is the eaves that wants to rain

It is Levante and Tramontana and at the time of the chicharrina flies

Crown of thorns to eat from

It is a blouse with a knot on the chest

It's a long way and disappear

It is a hug of knives that bleeds rosebushes

A bed of straw and crystals, pools of gall

Sipped and spoiled

It's an October breeze that knocks down walls

The udder in which I sleep and what he wants

To the sick petal that sings when coughing

They tried to shoe him and he closed the scissors

He did not go to cal and sing, the point of anointing the wounds remained

The lost hours served as a canvas

It is the whim of the seeing eye

How he dies only through the same peephole

From the very door that he wants to break down

It's a hand trying to catch

Some piece of love and heels on the nape of life

Rotten apple, Jawbone of Abel

Who entertains himself by unbuttoning the whites of the day

To look nice