rodean de aire neutro las fachadas
como cuchillos: mientras
el aire del peligro roe las circunstancias,
los ladrillos, la sal se derrama como aguas
y los carros de gordos ejes tambalean.
Ola de rosas rotas y agujeros! Futuro
de la vena olorosa! Objetos sin piedad!
Nadie circule! Nadie abra los brazos
dentro del agua ciega!
Oh movimiento, oh nombre malherido,
oh cucharada de viento confuso
y color azotado! Oh herida en donde caen
hasta morir las guitarras azules!
THE RUINED STREET.
A tongue from different eras of time is moving
over the injured iron, over the eyes
of plaster. It"s a tail of harsh
horsehair, stone hands stuffed with rage,
and the house colors fall silent, and the decisions
of the architecture explode,
a ghastly foot makes the balconies filthy,
so slowly, with saved-up shadow,
with face masks bitten by winter and leisure,
the days with their high foreheads drift between
the houses with no moon.
The water and the customs and the white mud
that the star sprinkles down, and especially
the air that the bells have beaten in their rage
are wearing things out, brushing
the wheels, pausing
at the cigarshops,
and red hair grows on the cornices
like a long sorrow, while keys are falling