• El silencio es de mármol. El silencio es la respuesta de todas las preguntas.

  • ¿Existe alguna tierra donde los latidos son los creadores del propio corazón?

  • Será que el infinito es mucho más pequeño si se mira de cerca.

  • Es una tarde roja, amarilla, celeste y esto es cualquier lugar.

  • Que no crezca jamás en mis entrañas esa calma aparente llamada escepticismo.

  • Doy por cierta la sed de infinitud que me espolea.


We shall meet in a place in which there is no darkness
George Orwell

I have always imagined the day of my death.
Even in childhood, when it doesn’t exist.

I dreamed of a heroic end with the planets all lined up.
To trade places with Rick, to stay in Casablanca
to plunge into a lake beside my sick lover
to fall as a militiawoman in a war
where I don’t speak the language.
I always wanted a death worthy of life.

Two thousand fifty-nine.
Flowers are born with half their petals
armies of zombies occupy the sidewalks.

There are a lot of us old folks
we are so many
that our weight bends the word future.
They say we smell bad, that we are selfish
that we hug
with exactly the pressure of shackles.

I’m alone in the room.
My eyes are sunken in and my movements slow
like a cold Sunday afternoon.
Very white teeth adorn these men.
They don’t smile or threaten: they are statues.
They hold me down by my old woman’s fragile humerus bones.
It’s not going to hurt, stay calm.
Just like a trapped animal
I gnash at the air, I fight back, I struggle,
I shout out my mother’s name a thousand times.

My resistance collides with an hygienic silence.
There’s too much light and a full syringe.

You are lucky, -I howl out in exhaustion-,
if my mother was here
she would never let you do this to me.