The Voice of the Mirror
(For Spanish translation click here)

So life passes like a rare mirage.

The blue rose gives light and being to the thistle!

Beside the dogma of the bundle

murderer, the sophism of The Good and The Reason!

By chance it has caught the thing which brushed the hand;

the perfumes diffused, and between them has felt

the moss that in the middle of the road has grown

in the dry apple-tree of the dead Illusion.

So life passes,

with the singing of treacherous parched bacchantes.

I go totally overwhelmed, forward . . . forward,

muttering my funeral march.

They walk close to the feet of Royal Brahmin elephants,

and the sordid buzz of a boil mercurial,

couples raise a toast sculpted in rock,

and forgotten ones dawn a cross on the mouth.

So life passes, a vast orchestra of Sphinxes

who throws on the Abyss, their funeral march.