La Llaga

This wound I carry lit up
like an old cockade.
I'm showing you
my open wound
which was not made by a woman.

From the depths illuminating my sorrow
It has hung on me.
It is this wound that protects
the bones of my conscience,
so that I never again
forget
the reason for misery.

Its feeling of lonely
Christmas Eve,
no longer gives.

It keeps sayings of those who look
at the wise king of absence.
Also defeat, sacrifice, love.
Cobbled, smell of beast.

Rain of courtyards
heavy metal
that sounds in the sheds
and a butterfly of mine and of
the one who wrote,
who returns in the springs
to see.

Rain of courtyards
heavy metal.
that sounds in the sheds
and a butterfly of mine and of
the one who wrote,
who returns in the springs
to see.