A LETTER HEADING FOR WALES Comments

You ask me sweet lady
What do I see in these days at this side of the sea.
They inhabit me the streets of this country
Which for you is unknown,
These streets where going for a walk is
Taking a long journey through the sore,
Where going by the clean light
Is filling up your eyes with bandages and mutterings.



You ask me
What do I feel in these days at this side of the sea.
A pinning in the body,
The light of a madhouse
That comes serenely to temper
The most profound wounds
Born from a village of colorless days.



And the sun?
The sun, an old druggy that has licked those wounds.
Because you know, sweet lady,
That this country is a mingling of streets and wounds.



I introduce you:
Here there are singing palms
But also there are tortured men.
Here there are fully naked skies
And woman bended by the Singer's treadle
Whom in their mad pedaling could have reached
Java or Bordeaux,
Nepal and your little town in Wales,
Where I suppose, your beloved Dylan Thomas drank shades.
The woman of this country
Are able to sew a button onto the wind,
To dress it up as an organ player.



Here they grow beside the rage and the orchids,
You don't even suspect what it is a country
Like an old animal
Preserved in the most diverse alcohols,
You don't even suspect what it is to live
Among the moons of yesterday, the dead and the ruins.
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