Al Culo de Una Lombriz
Marea
At the Butt of a Worm
The tiles in our landing
know what we fucked,
we started by screwing some screw
and it got out of hand,
and kicking with the pieces no one could
undo this stubborn puzzle,
like a cherry tail
that holds them two by two.
We got into the butt of a worm to sleep
while everything outside was collapsing and there
we kept crossing out one April and another April,
we got into the butt of a worm to sleep,
when we came out there was nothing left and here
we keep crossing out one April and another April.
The little hollow of the landing smells like a niche
and knows how to say I love you,
and although only bugs remain
it still remembers that we were caught red-handed
peeking over the antennas
and burning with the sorrows of the sun,
and enduring the half-sleep
when it freezes inside the heart.
We got into the butt of a worm to sleep
while everything outside was collapsing and there
we kept crossing out one April and another April,
we got into the butt of a worm to sleep,
when we came out there was nothing left and here
we keep crossing out one April and another April.
The walls of the entrance, mute and blind,
where no one paints anymore.
not even us, who no longer paint anything
nor run the ink,
there's no one who can carve with the tip of a key
remembering a name to forget,
nor kiss as they know
those who know they don't know how to kiss.
We got into the butt of a worm to sleep
while everything outside was collapsing and there
we kept crossing out one April and another April,
we got into the butt of a worm to sleep,
when we came out there was nothing left and here
we keep crossing out one April and another April.
