An ale river
Between the mountains
Reels by holy mist.
Dead in the Eden,
The land, the land,
Screaming on the Aragon valley,
“Beyond fragile lips
Of a bleeding, tormented river,
It is lost as the seashore,
And is caressed by mothering wind,
In the crimson river, confined by silence
Which salutes the pre-winter to the lips of

Fire, fire, fire…”
Fire, fire, fire,
Which pales the haulm,
An unfruitful red,
Which speaks in dark rooms
And tinted glasses with bored people

In their betrayal, long live their sun-struck coats
When it gets late in the day and colder,
Paler as a duch dream
That spoke in loneliness
After the shapeless shell,
A long cigarette stains the ground.
Fire, fire, fire,
It is only little.
Someday between
The fog and Valencia,
I will give only silence,
As it croaked of unspoken winter
And black coffee,
With beans and pits.

Moved violently
As an uprisen sound

Courses snow in frosty vineyards
As firewood emerges from pale lips,

Foreword to his shining crystalline cruelty,
As remembered…

7 thoughts on “Firewood.

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