El camino / Enrique Molina

The Road

Sometimes the road arrives
converted into demented suns
Or wets its mouth with rain
Or passes clenching its teeth

But it comes with its wounds
Its avid hand strangles
And its errant mouth is stained
With adventure’s laughter

The distant calls of those people
Plotting with the wind
Sullied by the wine of trains
With landscapes in movement

I open the door and the wind moves
A wave enters with its fruit
The dunes enter with a bone
A hand with quick fingers

There are women between the cracks
The white sponge of the moon
Remote breasts like lakes
Passions in dark lands

Ardor thirst vortex
Always fleeing the instantaneous
Its mechanics is flame
Those lips never stop

People born without borders
Tangled in absence
Disdainfully dressed
In feathers and weeds

Characters whose silhouette
Is left with knife marks
Thrown like lightning
In the storm’s circus

Long torch vibratile earth
Caress with no price or pity
Houses suddenly flee
And in their place, a letter

Blood forgets its habits:
Weight sleep fear mourning
The road takes the form
Of everything in the world

Arrogant birds peck
The heart of churches
Its voice reveals to insomniacs
The most beautiful heresies

But the road is a flavor
Snatched from life itself
Let others keep their head:
A pen decapitates me

Fuego libre (1962)

{ Enrique Molina | Argentina, 1910-1997 }

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