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They were like fissures in the house,
like shadows.
Legs knew not
how to surround a heart
upon shutting off its air.
Arms knew not
how to be borders for a moment
that would never last.
Bellies, driven through snow, knew not
how to melt their surroundings.
Lips knew not
how to rest on the world
like a horizon.
They knew not,
and they were like shadows in the street,
like cold footprints.

But legs and arms,
lips and bellies confused together,
they had love, they discovered it
exiled in the sheets one day,
older each time and asking
why the age of the sea
looked like chests that breathe.


Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams

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Book II
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