El cóndor

In its iron coffin it lives
among the stones
nourishing on horseshoes,
among the stones.

In the mountains the north wind howls
and the condor emerges from its box
among the stones.

It spreads its mystical plumage
among the stones.

It runs until it can fly,
gallops the concave height
with its wings.

And pecks at the zinc of the sky
lurking
the motionless point, the beat
of the heart that prepares to die
among the stones.

It flies down the black cyclone
and falls like a cruel fist:
death waits down there,
above, mountain ranges.

It rises again to its abode
among the stones,
closes its imperious wings
among the stones
and once again the condor sleeps
in its coffin.