(In jail)
At the time that the accursed die,
bones let loose a vast cry of ashes
while the easygoing and enormous wind wails
with a white hosanna of rebel doves.
Still the night, from the air only comes
a tired sound of ships that sail away
and homes where they love, a sound
that grows inward till it touches the soul.
The shadows turn round, I go inside myself,
I cross myself and raise the words.
In this night of embers in mourning, enough
is the pupil in the cell where I smoke
a pipe of satiety and desire
and then, to breathe a deep space,
to go out of time, to be under another sky.
Enough is the wind and to possess its origin.
Here, without anybody, within these walls.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem