Aire en México / Enrique Molina

Air in Mexico

I have woken under a bird’s feet, covered by an
       Indian blanket,
you could hear the distant bells and neighing.
Is this the last hotel? I’ve said to myself, lost in the cactus,
the people are very ancient, with masks of red earth,
horsemen covered in decorative mirrors, women
standing on the burning beaches of death.
I honor the gods with tequila and chili,
that sea shanty blows here between sugar skulls,
and suddenly so much jubilation in my heart,
the taste of idolatry, the taste for such stars,
       embroidered blouses, steeds,
and the skeleton orchestra making their bones rattle
       covered in punctured paper,
saying goodbye, saying goodbye once more.
Saying goodbye to this solar matter
where I suddenly wake up lost in my memory.




Los últimos soles (1980)




{ Enrique Molina | Argentina, 1910-1997 }