by Roberto Bolaño, trans. by D. Matus
In my works the practice pours as cause and effect
as a rhombus, always present and in movement.
The desperate look of a detective
faced with an extraordinary sunset.
Fast writing rapid blur on a sweet day that
But no bridge can lead the way or show
the exit from this illusory maze.
Perhaps invisible and armored rhymes about
a childish game, the certainty that she is dreaming.
Poetry that perhaps will speak for my shadow in coming days
when I am nothing more than a name and not the man with
empty pockets wandering and working in the slaughterhouses
of the old and new continents.
Integrity and durability to not ask for the romances
composed in the honor of certain young girls.
And pity for my years to come at 26.