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Last generations
of difficult girls,
of boys bound to pride
and old turntables, they remind me
that on some terrace by the sea,
under the heat of a world,
I too stood
with that same lack of existence.

(Sand in bra and jeans,
thigh buried, body hair one with the moon,
hands bestowed
to separate shadow from profile,
they came to tell me
that I should cede not a palm's width of terrain
in my invasion of the body that simultaneously invades us).

Tasting of ice,
on ships that seemed not to move,
undefined and distant
they continue dancing there, seated in my eyes.
Each time more distantly
this music reminds me
that we do not all go down to the sea
on a possible night
of ignited wetness in summer.

I inherited almost nothing,
only temptation and her smile
and those elevators
smaller than a kiss.


Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams

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Book II
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