at north farm

 Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,

At incredible speed, traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes.
But will he know where to find you,
Recognize you when he sees you,

Give you the thing he has for you?

Hardly anything grows here,
Yet the granaries are bursting with meal,
The sacks of meal piled to the rafters.
The streams run with sweetness, fattening fish;
Birds darken the sky. Is it enough
That the dish of milk is set out at night,
That we think of him sometimes,
Sometimes and always, with mixed feelings?

romanze

The rain, its tiny pressure

on your scalp, like ants

passing the door of a tobacconist.

"Hello!" they cry, their

noses glistening . . .

vagabundo

En ninguna

parte

de la tierra

me puedo

arraigar

A cada

nuevo

clima

que encuentro

descubro

desfalleciente

que

una vez

ya le estuve

habituado

Y me separo siempre

extranjero

Naciendo

tornado de épocas demasiado

vividas

Gozar un solo

minuto de vida

inicial

Busco un

país inocente