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Like a knife, you thrust your burning
tongue into the shadow
and you go away and you leave it there
in its dark meat, throbbing,
like a small steel blade
of light, that in your love you sharpen.
How deep it reaches! how securely
it stays buried in the silence
and distributes stars to the night
of the entrails that it illuminates.

Like the skin of thought,
darkness is woven
and the body walks without shadow
and the heart without wound,
the same as in the limbo of the blind,
without shame and without happiness.

How many flooded eyes
and how much useless saliva . . .
and how good the stab
of your fiery tongue.
And, so true, in the exact
moment, your knife sank.

No one saw you. No one knew
who ignited its word,
nor why it was left
in mad alien shadow.

No one saw you. No one knew
how the vision recovered . . .
No one saw you. No one knew,
nor recognized, your flight


Emilio Prados
Translation by Donald Wellman

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