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Blanca Wiethüchter, translated by Joaquín Gavilano 

About Perfection (Portraits From an Exhibition)

I am not even the shadow that I once was
but this is all I have.


Sensitive to light
like the night
solemn moon.


Your hand that caresses my hair,
Your mouth that kisses me with its kiss.
Your chest that rests my chest.
Your body that lacks my lack.


Your inordinate presence.


At the bottom of the sky
stubbornly visible
the agitated image
of a silk kiss.


Provoking the anxiety
of thirsty birds
lips in secret spring
spilling out names



Yes, you are in me
with an ancient fervor
and it no longer matters whether you are a dream
or half a dream
whether you inhabit the tide
or the mountain.
And so you bring me back to me
and from here I look at you
and I touch you and I love you


At the bottom of the sky
stubbornly visible
the agitated image
of a silver death.


I will let you go
and I will not look at your back
nor the shadow of your footsteps.
I will remember you with a name
loved by hope
because I love you
without knowing what love is.

In astonished words you fall
and you remain mute
far from your good habits
without green festive birds
in the street
wretched lonely girl.


There was a veil of thread
(to keep lovers out of sight).
A veil of white thread
(to not let the lovers’ love be seen).
A veil hoisted like a flag
(to not let us see the wall that separates them).
A veil, a white veil
that can be touched with a glance.

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