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        XVII

Nothing lonelier than pain,
because it excludes too he who feels it,
whether his pain is a betrayal or a companion.
From my own emptiness
forever I the excluded.
You,
so disappeared,
swallowed by the earth like passing rains,
you can be beneath the shadows
that share night with my shadow,
in bars open like wounds,
burger joints
that the city inhabits and decorates
with the immobile sadness for sale in a cabaret,
where people shed
the modesty of knowing themselves to be tormented.

Next to the dead cars at the edge of the street,
there is an empty place that becomes a teardrop.

And I,
desperately I wander it,
because my eyes too
roam the city seeking a parking space
in the final hours of this endless Monday,
remote and alone.

autógrafo

Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams


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Book I
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