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Eyes of mine, laden,
you watch me with anger
as the party ends.

with the impatience with which a soul takes note,
you notice me at the instant
of some decision,
at the strange presence, emaciated,
of another necessity
and of another body,
while you pass whistling over my temples.

You have loved much, I know,
but you love like he who leaves one hundred witnesses,
one hundred dreams in a single night, one hundred different traces
of the same passion, gentler over time,

Nights of rock, leisurely, on the outskirts,
and a dark patio where desires mature,
where leather jackets confuse
with the smell of life.
Memories turned into Holy Days.

A history lacking credit with today,
and above all a world much less
marginal than its verses,
you summon me here.

This world you place in the mirror,
eyes of mine, laden.


Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams

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Book I
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