Standing still in your trace I tend
in these days of orange and boredom
to lean my skin into the rainy air.
Water boils.

I return to an island that self-impregnates
in her womb of ravines,
around the black ribbon of moist lapilli:
the pores
clutter like fallen roses
under this moon that won’t retain you.
I pour the seed.

On the amber the sediment of the last silence.
I finish it off
while I imagine you up a dirty street,
dreadful above,
on your way to the city.

(* )”And she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China. … and she lets the river answer that you´ve always been her lover. ” * Leonard Cohen.

(from On the Amber, 1986)

Translation: Richard Bueno Hudson