LXIII
(For Spanish translation click here)

It dawned raining. The well-combed

morning drips its fine hair.

Melancholy is moored;

and in badly tarred oxidant of hindú furniture,

destiny heaves about, barely able to keep its seat.

Flatland skies, disheartened

by great love, the platinum skies,

impossibly grim.

The sheepfold ruminates, underscored

by an Andean neighing.

I remember about myself. But masts of wind

are enough, rudders quiet until

they become one,

and the cricket of tedium and the gibbons unbreakable elbow.

Last of the mornings of freed long-haired poets

of precious pitch mountainous bucolic poems,

when I go out in search of the eleven

and it’s nothing but an untimely twelve.