In the silence, ghost cities are not made of burning asphalt that scorches your feet, but of faces and names that spit my ruins into the unconscious of the universe.

What haunts me are my sighs, and this raw, absolute wanting for you to leave a slow, planetary weight growing inside me.

My tongue holds me, and I hold it as my home and my eternal friend. We keep forever the answer to people’s anxious doubt. I show it my cave, I perform an autopsy on myself, and it gives me the word—the sacred word.

No habrá un “no duermas más”, ni el perrito, ni el mercadito, los veinte dedos entrelazados: del lirio al delirio, del lirio al delirio.

The world is beastly, roguish, wicked — little garden angels. I have not seen freedom on the hot asphalt, suffocated by rubber, by shoes worn out from fatigue, by baby strollers, by urine, by saliva, by tears. 

Soledad, a story that never ends, legs whose history I must cry out. Those six lines that ended your freedom. Your name profaned, your life profaned, the light born from your voice profaned.