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en la máscara de la muerte roja,
en el cuervo merodeando mi ventana,
soy testigo de Fausto vendiendo su alma,
le ordeno a Mefistófeles perderse en el fuego eterno, ayudo al
Hidalgo a combatir sus gigantes, paso horas ayudando
inútilmente al principito a quitar los baobab,
y siempre termino en el paraíso del Dante,
en el cielo de rayuela…
Me crea y me recrea,
me destruye y me construye,
finalmente entendí que,
no soy yo, es el libro…
•••
It’s not me,
It’s the book who struggles to be
who chases me,
calls me,
invites me,
seduces me,
It is jealous,
It lies to me and as if by magic it confesses,
It overwhelms and torments me.
It’s the book who wants to be tasted, touched,
absorbed, marked, scrutinized with commas,
periods and stresses.
It’s he who won’t stop but will persist day and night to never die
in dusty forgotten shelves.
It’s not me,
He is who speaks
full of mute voices that cry from the infinite
voices that refuse to be judged without trial.
anxious voices that crowd together in symbols,
indecipherable symbols encrypted in letters,
letters that line up submissively making up words,
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