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Love, you call me, I catch a taxi,
cross the excessive reality
of February to see you,
the transitory world that offers me
a seat in the back,
its refugee vault of dreams,
intermittent lights like conversations,
signs ablaze in the breeze,
which are not destiny
but are written on top of us.

I know your words will lack
that lavish tone, that the unquiet
airs of your hair
will keep the artificial nostalgia
of the lightless cellar where you wait for me,
and that, finally, tomorrow
upon waking,
between things halfway forgotten and details
taken out of context,
you will have pity and fear for your self,
shame or dignity, uncertainness
and perhaps lustful unrest,
the blow given to us
by stories told in a night of insomnia.

Yet we also know that it would be
worse and more expensive
to bring them home, to not hide the body
in the smoke of a bar.

I come without languages out of my loneliness,
and without languages I go towards yours.
There is nothing to say,
                                            but I suppose
we will speak of this while naked
sometime, lessening its importance,
reviving the rhythms of the past,
things far away
that no longer hurt us.


Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams

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Book I
español Original version