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In September
your lips fill with cellars
and the sky is prejudiced
having seen you ask life questions.
Yet also the sky,
wrinkled and precise
like your teenage windbreaker,
wants to be halfway open,
shine, having been recently loved,
resting in the grass
the weight of its long mane of cloud.

In September
yeses fill your mouth with smoke.


Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams

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Book II
español Original version