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This lost kingdom
where each politics takes the form of a kiss,
of a private scar
behind our embraces,
it is dominating us with its dreams,
from distance to distance.

I want you to rise
with the impatience of the trees,
growing until the exact moment
to rub my lips, to seek in them
wetness without rain.

I know we will discover
naked silhouettes in the house,
visiting memories,
ghosts of a night without summer,
that will wander in us and will ask for the bill,

because darkness, like a mirror,
returns to us the image it gives.

But I know all the questions
that I cannot answer,
the body where live the interrogations,
your dream caught in the handkerchief, as if you had cried it out.


Luis García Montero
Translation by Alice McAdams

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Book II
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