BROWSE Columns
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At that time of the afternoon when things wear out,
The labyrinths of six strings were drawn by the fire.
Feathers, tin, dust, a butterfly, a kiss,
All was squeezed by the night like a poppy,
And saved inside the guitar
Like another match in its box.
The hanging kettle,
The braided water,
The green tea.
Cup clouds grow.
A green stone on a ring
That appears in the mist,
And disappears in the mist.
Her cheeks:
Minted silver
In gloom unbounded.
But even the moon is only poetical because there is a man in the moon. (CHESTERTON: The man who was Thursday)
Buenos Aires, 2021.
In charge, with Facundo, of the translation column Paraphrasis, I share hidden or forgotten treasures with the literary world. .
