Whites, pinks. Blues almost in stripes
Points of latent light show signs
Of a secret shadow.
But the colour, betraying the shadow,
Materializes into a mass.
Lying in the summer of the house,
A form is lighting up.
Clarity brought to life between outlines
Of such pure repose,
Which cut and erase with their lines
The base confusion.
The flesh is bare. Its evidence
Is resolved in repose.
Just sameness, prodigious
Height of presence.
Immediate fullness, without surroundings,
Of the female body,
No excellence, neither voice nor flower. Destiny?
Oh absolute Present!
Translation by Joaquín González Muela