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A José Gorostiza

I too speak of the rose.
But mine is not the cold rose
Nor the child's skin,
Nor the rose that turns
So slowly that its movement
Is a mysterious form of stillness.

It is not the thristy rose,
Nor the bloody wound,
Nor the rose crowned with thorns
Nor the rose of the resurrection.

It is not the rose of naked petals
Nor the enclosed rose,
Nor the silk flame,
Nor is it the flaming rose.

It is not the velvet rose,
Nor the secret ulcer,
Nor the punctual rose telling time,
Nor the maritime bubble rose.

No, it is not the rose rose
But rather the uncreated rose,
The nocturnal,
The immaterial rose,
The empty rose.

It is the touch rose in darkness,
The rose that advances swiftly,
The rose with pink nails,
The rose yoke of vibrant fingers,
The digital rose,
The blind rose.

It is the rose moulding of hearing,
The rose ear,
The noise spiral,
The rose shell always abandoned
In the highest foam of the pillow.

It is the rose enfleshed in the mouth,
The rose that speaks awake
As if asleep.

It is the half-opened rose
Of that which seeps shadow,
The rose gut
That folds and expands,
Evoked, invoked, doomed,
It is the lip rose,
The wounded rose,
It is the rose that opens eyes,
The vigilant rose, awake,
The eyeless insomniac rose.

It is the rose of smoke,
The ash rose,
The black rose of carbon diamond
That silently pierces the darkness
And does not take up space.


Xavier Villaurrutia
Translation by Arturo Vasquez

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