Pedro Salinas y Serrano (1891-1951 / Spain)
Maybe it is because of the fog
that I caress you,
because all around me are fog,
dissolved shapes, things lacking
precision or definition,
things that turn into some vague
something without dimension.
I caress you, coin.
Nightfall in December
and you here in my hand, you,
precisely contoured, you, hard
with your body of fine silver.
with a number that cannot be conquered
by doubt or by fog
and with a face
that will never doubt,
face of an ancient queen, looking at me.
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