††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† †††††††RAMÓN PALOMARES






I have broken the sun
I am a card that shines
my stars are by the cliff.

I was over there laughing, once
and my hair hung down my shoulders and I sang
and everyone stood still and remained

She has come over the hilltops wrapped in fire;
her mouthís complaint flies
and her songs fly and so do her alluring lips that explode
into night irises;
from midnight to three, from midnight to three
at dawn.
When the musician tightens the cuatro strings
and feet rotate
and the living room burns.

I wonít stop returning
I will illuminate the windows
I will tangle the mareís mane.
I wonít stop returning.
I wonít stop returning.



So that Paramaconi arrived, the Toromaina
(Look what you bring on your back
óA ditch, a coffin I bring, a coffin
óNot a wound, an abyss, a coffin)

And it really was very deep

And Ulloa said

ďYou can tell this one has death
Heís dead, you can see his deathĒ

Iím the piece you still havenít eaten
óthe last oneó said Paramaconi



                             To Juan Sánchez Peláez

He saw a noose, it hung in his house.
There was a corpse outside
It was a fine and cruel noose
coming out the corpseís mouth.

He saw a town, he heard screams,
they were coming to kill him
he was carrying a musket, he was sweating

Then he saw a few cows grazing
and a clear and shining valley
and wars

He looked somewhere else
Isabel was in her hammock, swinging,
and beside her birds and enormous glowing leaves
Thatís where the sea began to grow

Then Francisco started to lose himself
to lose himself



Donít eat me Francisco
because Iím your death
Me, thick meat of tomatoes and oregano,
me, the salt
Iím your knife

Donít eat me Francisco
because Iím your edge, your arrow tip,
Me, the deer
the mountain pork
the avocado and the potato
Iím your burial candle,
your incense, your coffin

Donít eat me Francisco because Iím your holy water,
the vegetables, me
your shovel, your pick
the place where they dig your grave
Donít eat me, son, donít eat me,
because then you wonít be able to vomit me

And Francisco ate his night, his edge, his arrow tip
and he ate his shovel and his pick
and the coffin
and the candles they didnít place for him.


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