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...Call me...

Long tongue of sea,
restless in the gaze of return,
this street that populates its loneliness with leaves,
that tangles in the light like a cluster
of shadows or of mud,
of wet newspapers
over the indigo oil of the tiles,
and lipstick forgotten on the walls,
and gardens with doubts
and ivy
submerging the door's bourgeois iron.

Long tongue of sea in my memory.

Under the French light
the watchful numbers on doorways recreate themselves,
the little mermaid reflected,
her lips over the water,
the empty theater of musicians
waiting for Sunday.
Everything like a private reclamation,
the air that lifts head
from heart and pushes
toward the strange task of writing one's nostalgia.

And nothing is neutral,
not even the shadows of old houses
about their landscape lost in sidewalks,
not even the construction crane
that distantly,
beautiful like a swan,
extends its long neck and rests it
on the gray eaves of the horizon.

I went down to the city
in that uncertain foretold hour,
where all the stoplights shiver,
in that dark field,
where the breeze of the taxis blows
with its mossy reflection,
where the light hides
the shiny under
-eye circles of the neighborhood,
leaving on each body
a long gaze, an empty scene.

I was in the city
and saddened at the time of wandering its signals,
vagabond in the light of the storefronts.
I want to round the corner,
discover another spine,
seek a municipal and friendly heart
that opens for me the door of its eyes
and invites me in.

Call me,
I will return with you,
wandering slowly the streets that do no exist
when you do not call me,
walking for you
through the afternoon's small anger.
Call me,
it's barely eight o'clock, barely a mild
sonority of life
returning to the sidewalks,
it confuses itself in the hurry of teenagers,
hastens its step at the last stores,
opens its metallic and human color
of couples embracing in cars,
strangers who watch each other
under the uncertain tent of desire,
under the artificial moon.

Watch me returning
over the tall houses of this distracted April,
I who so fear the borders.

Among the trees
the sun looks like the eye of a drunk.

Call me,
today has a different schedule,
the heat of its reign is different,
the image of some servants of different blood,
with the dignity of rational beings,
thinking hearts that could talk
if they were not alone,
if someone were to call them.

But everything convenes on your presence:
watch me returning.

Open doorways,
they remind me of your skin,
this doubtless kingdom
where I try to speak of the horizon.

The horizon,
like the dirty counter of an unfamiliar bar
where I will never be able to lean.


Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams

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