In about an hour, when the body is cold*
When underground, on [my]** back
We will have crossed...your fingers
In this final room,
This fortress of wood,
That your soul flies above our roofs.
I don't say anything, at your age,
I wouldn't say [anything of] your hair
Neither your hands, your smell, your big...
Your big blue eyes
I will keep quiet about your magic and your spells
I will spoil your sweetness...from time to time
Do not speak to me of God!
Do not speak to me of the Cross!
Do not speak to me for them!
Do not speak to me of faith!
Forget your old books
Forget your old fathers
Your verses for the weak,
Your bell towers of vipers***
Your stories for children
What is beautiful, what is great
About putting a knee to the earth
A whole people dying, justifying the misery
Of divine disappointments
When the wounded, the proud
Do not come either
While dripping and greasy
Sweating of comfort, stuffed with nonsense
With evil agreements,
Watered with red wine, and others with ridiculous bread***
Blinding those who are there
A whole naïve people
I promise you my rose
I promise you my flower
That I come to in this nothingness
Of garden beds where you repose
To lay beside
Our old withered bodies
And my hand in your hand
To rot in this nothingness.