It left the sun this morning, when you arrived at the doors of my eyes. You sheltered to me, franc, and of your chest a sigh escaped that extended towards the horizon constructing in the time, the footpath of the forgetfulness. It left the sun before the dawn and no longer you were, you had started off. Smiling the glance, the fists tightened, the stirred up skin, the thirst in the border of goodbye. Seated in front of the sea, the painter delineated the figure of the lady of the dusk.
The colors jugueteaban around to his and a shade I settle in the linen cloth from where it spoke to him: -Why you look for, man to me, if of the exile of l grave I do not have to come to calm your pain? The painter, without astonishment, fearless, responded: – You, maid at night, are the fullness that Integra my memories; without you I lack noun, I do not have origin; I need to you. -What there am of darte noble horseman but the Earth impurities overwhelmed with insects? – You will give honey grains Me that the Earth hides underneath the starch of the seed; you have to bring the seeds to me that create the life. – If my skin is divided, and my relamidos bones, from where you will take hold not to fall in the bog of useless sacrifices? – If your skin is exhausted and your body, nibbled, I will discover, then, the secrets that your glance has hidden to me. And I will climb towards her and, when the furrows have gone away, I will twist the sun to illuminate your entrails and your entrails will say to me, finally, why you have gone away. – The furrows of the way already have abierto their mouths and in them I have submerged; nothing is of me, man of the delirium, nothing else that infected paroxysm. The painter smiled before the occurrence, a sonorous outburst of laughter arrived from the abyss; he hurried his hand surrounding the colors of the day that moved away to them wide of the adminisering extreme unction to shore and the stop of the gigantic ones.
– He sees your home, man Listened between bubbling of waters He returns, he embraces your woman and he leaves of the souls pave his confinements. The painter did not raise the glance. Their hands were already confused with the linen cloth, and this one, with the gray sand for all time. When the sun showed, the man it lay out of breath, without heat, skin; to its side tenuous, but shining the maid refulga.