Verses Under The Sheets

In the plaza of desire, I sold my sins With a liar's gaze and wet lips My words were a flame With my songs, which filtered through the windows A young woman with clear eyes Asked me for a confession without a cassock and without forgiveness She said she was a maiden Who lived among coplas and boleros Who gasped with each verse she sang "Just one verse," she asked me, "just one and nothing more," And in a second she was already moaning: "Make me a fleeting quartet!" Verses under the sheets Each stanza..., a caress, each rhyme..., a fall With my ink between her legs, and her laughter in my mind We create poems... without censorship, without forgiveness Between kisses and metaphors, reason dissolves In the poet's bed Only the poem rules without forgiveness With the moon in heat..., looking at us with ardor With her face flushed with the song of love I recited in her navel And she opened her stanzas, like an immortal poem "Make me prose," she whispers to me, "make me rhyme until I sweat," "make me verse around my waist... that I cannot forget." And between laughter and moans, a whisper... blossomed "Oh poet, you who made me a song!" There is no library that can hold The secrets of this night Nor a shelf that can hold Every scream that was a poem Every gasp, a truth And at the end of our madness No one wanted to rest And if tomorrow you ask what poem I sang to you Look in the mirror... and listen to it again