XXI

--Lucía Estrada (trans. Nicolás Suescún)

I enter the fever. From my window I see the birth

of the seas, hills covered by foam, dead,

submerged brides. I am afraid of being found

with this vision, that they discover my desire

to run after a legion of drowned ones. The body

plunges down, it sparkles. I am one with

all; my feet liberate me from the way. The sword, the

gold of the pond, convulsed. The

flame goes up, it cuts the thread of resistance. There is a hand

lost for writing, another that

rescues it, that supports the needles of being. It does not

weave it, it only takes care of the

verticality of the dream. No, I don’t stop falling. Look

at this mauve rain: it has found

another lineage, a mystical foretaste, an animal of the

depths that remembers itself and

remembers us.

It is the cold, the exaltation, the volcanic hand

that opens you, and pleasure.

Do not let go the flower.