Madrugada / Armando Rojas Guardia


Papers. Books and folders
stalking. Notebooks and folios, rigorous.
Just over there, the pieces
where collected knowledge
sleeps away its useless vanity.
Indifferent and stubborn, the walls
delimit insomnia, this vigil
that measures the silence of the doors,
calibrates the room’s geometry,
feels the exactitude of the window.
Fixed clock. If I open the closet
I’ll find my clothes shivering. In the drawers
the secret opens its lips.
The mirror returns a dumb anecdote:
me writing these lines.
                                         I know I’m looking for
your smell in the words: it’s your body
that breathes in the letters of desire.
But it’s pointless. Today you’re only named by eviction
and here in this shipwrecked room I practice
the autopsy of remembrance.

{ Armando Rojas Guardia, Yo que supe de la vieja herida, Caracas: Monte Ávila Editores, 1985 }

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