En la mañana / José Barroeta

In the Morning

                                                  To Miyó Vestrini

There’s sun.
My father’s milk drops from the cadaver
into air.
An oneiric milk,
in a state of coma
knocks down summer’s shine at the beginning,
doubles white the roses where the bird poses.
There’s sun.
My siblings like chicks
start to open spaces in the
timid earth.
There’s sun.
I’m riding in the car of the dead
with November flowers
and milk from my father on my face.

El arte de anochecer (1975)

{ José Barroeta, Todos han muerto: Poesía completa (1971-2006), Barcelona: Editorial Candaya, 2006 }

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