Wednesday, July 7, 2010


by Roberto BolaƱo, 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

remains unseen.

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.