In the plaza of desire, I sold my sins
With a liar's gaze and wet lips
My words were a flame
With my songs, which filtered through the windows
A young woman with clear eyes
Asked me for a confession without a cassock and without forgiveness
She said she was a maiden
Who lived among coplas and boleros
Who gasped with each verse she sang
Just one verse, she asked me: Just one and nothing more
And in a second she was already moaning: Make me a fleeting quartet!
Verses under the sheets
Each stanza
A caress, each rhyme., a fall
With my ink between her legs, and her laughter in my mind
We create poems
Without censorship, without forgiveness
Between kisses and metaphors, reason dissolves
In the poet's bed
Only the poem rules without forgiveness
With the Moon in heat
Looking at us with ardor
With her face flushed with the song of love
I recited in her navel
And she opened her stanzas, like an immortal poem
Make me prose, she whispers to me: Make me rhyme until I sweat
Make me verse around my waist
That I cannot forget
And between laughter and moans, a whisper
Blossomed
Oh poet, you who made me a song!
There is no library that can hold
The secrets of this night
Nor a shelf that can hold
Every scream that was a poem
Every gasp, a truth
And at the end of our madness
No one wanted to rest
And if tomorrow you ask what poem I sang to you
Look in the mirror
And listen to it again
