Dance of life

The strange thing was that she did not stop loving me, that she did not leave the stones of the river, the aroma of her skin, in the intensity of the nights, in spite of her absence, the sweetness of her voice did not stop fluttering away the misery, she did not move away from the butterflies of summer, from the corn and the yerba buena, and we both left with our shoes that were not ours, with our fingers out in the open, with the colorful fillings and the hatred, we arrived at a house, this house, many houses, with an abandoned table and a jar of butter on a tablecloth and a spring and a mine and a blackish mineral that would look like the scorched blood on a piece of flesh of what was a hand, some fingers, a piece of bread bread bread bread bread bread bread bread bread bread the word rearranging itself in the sphere of the brain, to carry new information to the salivary glands, human flesh would taste like lightning, like shit, somewhere it had been written about eternity and the ether for the wisdom and patience of another, I would like a crab How rich would a crab with butter on its chest be? I would like your photo to die this very afternoon (actually I was already dead) of a death foretold, the crumb of BREAD growing from the fibers of the table, like grandma's ferns, always lacking water, for the scarcity and laughter of a few days, of the days when it was Christmas, we would have money in the house, more than a garlic soup, and one or another tadpole as they say to frogs' legs, at night the lights of the blissful tree taken for the occasion would be turned on and from the (starry) sky would come out a light that fleetingly would be lost among the Júcaros, the light treasuring the memories of happiness, of the past times, when from the balcony of the house you could see the orange trees lined up like an army to infinity, the pigeons from the fifth floor shitting the water channels, and the mysterious house of the cisterns would no longer echo in the night, the turbine engine had suffered wear and tear, I would spend my life counting a bag of marbles and sweets smeared in honey, eternal in the tower of the sky, among meek clouds barking over the waters and the hateful fish, the night and the valkyries taking up the hinges of the windows, their creaking of fear and death, the chairs tormenting us in the dark, the curtains in unison spreading their soul of lace and embroidery, the presence of the grandparents, scattering their hair of silver and oil, us meeting in hiding in this house synchronized with the old God of time, like the rhythmic vibration of the springs of the clock.

Every moon I waited for you, since a September 11th of any year, since I was hit by shrapnel in the leg, the smell of scorched flesh and the trillions of gunpowder sparks devouring the gloom, I woke up in a military tent to treat the wounded, the valkyries began to revive me and suffocate me (to their delight) to madness, I met Rosa Elena, the fucking piece of white cloth highlighting her appetizing legs, saving souls and burning others, the fall into the abyss through her would come, without remorse I loved her slowly, then would come the encounters, the time to leave again for war, I no longer wished to go, but returning with the abhorrent rifle, with death dragging me from one place to another, me walking in the front line, in search of a hand, of a gun that would blow my brains out, that would erase your perfect and harmonious image, your mouth, that would annihilate me at once, among the pastures and the almonds, with the hot blood of the other leg to find you, and then to merge, to couple us like fireflies in the dance of life.