O M A R P É R E Z
Translated by Roberto Tejada
Man without an elite
A swelling, a subject drunk on functional seasons
a vertigo that trembles the branches of trees,
that's the conclusion of a vagrancy
along the smoldering side of a paradise devoid of intimates
a paradise that offers no other certification
except for a storm of ashes and white hands.
No one knows the exact taste of a face
no one knows and the puffing of cheeks
will spoil any lavish reincarnation,
two faces or a hundred are easy to love
but a single face is unattainable, a fistful of earth.
The blood of those shedding their otter pelts
emphasizes the zealotry of a sun
weakening without the force of its solar spots,
lacking skill, the elites, who corrupt everything,
crack the edge of the stars
on the notch of someone's back, imperfect and unpunished.
n e x t
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