INVENTORY OF THE DARK
There are young girls wetting with the stupor of frogs
And humid cadavers rotting alone
On moonless nights
There are men born with a hole in their chest
And bitter wax tapers to debilitate virgins
In the dark of the moon
There are magnanimous torrents of tears that burn
And wearying weepings like an eye on the floor
On moonless nights
There are treacherous mattresses resembling purest crystal
And poisonous friends like lizards at ease
In the dark of the moon
There are women who gnaw the most tender violins
And rusting irons as happy as wastrels
On moonless nights
Through the hopes and through the hurricanes
With eyelids that sound and wrists that tremble
In the dark of the moon
There is the heavy atmosphere of worn chemises
Clinging to our thighs like a frightened child
On moonless nights
There are very deep wells with cries inside them
Like the salt that imprisons the roots of dreams
In the dark of the moon
There are bodies, radios, bottles, mares
To spurt in a welter like working manure
On moonless nights
And there is a hole in the ground, without measure or owner
With bridges of lichen and the sound of fright
In the dark of the moon
There are bulls like fountains flighty as horses
Who enlace our legs in sudden lunges
On moonless nights
There are telegraph forms with the news of births.
And missives of hoarfrost to kill the expectant.
In the dark of the moon.
Soft autumnal firewood, and these hands useless
To break the seals stamped on my hearing
On moonless nights
There are atrocious cowbells and dyes that mire
Our misty sleep like a young girl's dying
In the dark of the moon
The trees, the clovers, the vegetal oxen
The corners, the blows the watery maidens
On moonless nights
They come leaping along the ineffable lids
Along the hands frozen by death's proximity
In the dark of the moon
Along the rooftops and over the schoolbooks
Through the highest branches wounded with swallows
On moonless nights
Ferocious winds blow from hated provinces
And sustain the shadows we maraud alone
In the dark of the moon.
Camilo José Cela
Translation by Anthony Kerrygan