Four hundred days of great stagnant days

Trodden without ash – dry and staggering

A solemn, light wind cutting the landscape

– Fading– Unfaded with a rub of the eyes

Articulated seasons –now frozen

cover me, tear me into pieces with primitive cruelty

– Configure the old infantile dream.

And once awoken, the eyelids stick relentless

So much we'd like a slumber of H

-tunnelled vision-

-metallic echoes-

taking our eyes slightly crystallised –formerly of glass-

Erizada con hielo seco

mi piel se hace aquella del gran poderoso lagarto,

justo antes

-justo en esa casilla del juego-

del despertar del Común.

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