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      INVENTORY OF THE DARK

There are young girls wetting with the stupor of frogs
And humid cadavers rotting alone
On moonless nights

There are men born with a hole in their chest
And bitter wax tapers to debilitate virgins
In the dark of the moon

There are magnanimous torrents of tears that burn
And wearying weepings like an eye on the floor
On moonless nights

There are treacherous mattresses resembling purest crystal
And poisonous friends like lizards at ease
In the dark of the moon

There are women who gnaw the most tender violins
And rusting irons as happy as wastrels
On moonless nights

Through the hopes and through the hurricanes
With eyelids that sound and wrists that tremble
In the dark of the moon

There is the heavy atmosphere of worn chemises
Clinging to our thighs like a frightened child
On moonless nights

There are very deep wells with cries inside them
Like the salt that imprisons the roots of dreams
In the dark of the moon

There are bodies, radios, bottles, mares
To spurt in a welter like working manure
On moonless nights

And there is a hole in the ground, without measure or owner 
With bridges of lichen and the sound of fright
In the dark of the moon

There are bulls like fountains flighty as horses
Who enlace our legs in sudden lunges
On moonless nights

There are telegraph forms with the news of births.
And missives of hoarfrost to kill the expectant.
In the dark of the moon.

Soft autumnal firewood, and these hands useless
To break the seals stamped on my hearing
On moonless nights

There are atrocious cowbells and dyes that mire
Our misty sleep like a young girl's dying
In the dark of the moon

The trees, the clovers, the vegetal oxen
The corners, the blows  the watery maidens
On moonless nights

They come leaping along the ineffable lids
Along the hands frozen by death's proximity
In the dark of the moon

Along the rooftops and over the schoolbooks
Through the highest  branches wounded with swallows
On moonless nights

Ferocious winds blow from hated provinces
And sustain the shadows we maraud alone
In the dark of the moon.

autógrafo

Camilo José Cela
Translation by Anthony Kerrygan


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