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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-03-30 | [Este texto, tienes que leerlo en english] | Inscrito en la biblioteca por x
No map traces the street
Where those two sleepers are. We have lost track of it. They lie as if under water In a blue, unchanging light, The French window ajar Curtained with yellow lace. Through the narrow crack Odors of wet earth rise. The snail leaves a silver track; Dark thickets hedge the house. We take a backward look. Among petals pale as death And leaves steadfast in shape They sleep on, mouth to mouth. A White mist is going up. The small green nostrils breathe, And they turn in their sleep. Ousted from that warm bed We are a dream they dream. Their eyelids keep the shade. No harm can come to them. We cast out skins and slide Into another time.
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