The convenience store is rough as the
elements.
So I turn on the photocopier. Its light
snubs out all the frigidity of the place.
At times it blinds me.
(Like the lights of cars
that turn the corner.)
I mix a Fanta with a Quilmes.
I hear no one:
I remember the first time I
kissed you, last summer, by
an overgrown field ruled by
so many crickets.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem