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.