THIS TRIP
I do not know how many dreams ago began this journey, the shore of the sun, the shore of death. Like a veil sinks back into memory, apprentice of exile. Oh mirror, moon ominous. From which mountain will ask the way to the waters, the shore of the sun, the shore of death. The time has stopped, and yet there are verbs that happen. Yesterday a poplar, perhaps tomorrow a willow. Through the evening as the spessezza white milk. I stretch my arms from the coast, a blind man, a monaco, a doll.
(Mercedes Roffé)
http://www.amazon.com/Mercedes-Roff%C3%A9/e/B0034NN4X0
http://www.amazon.com/LAS-LINTERNAS-FLOTANTES-Bajolsluna-Poesia/dp/B00MSL1LAW
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