Víctor Terán

“...Console my soul, clumsy air,
spill into my eyes the deepest dream,
a dense dream and distant like death.
I recall the fingers of your hand,
your bony fingers.
My eyes choke for the moons of your lips.
Your memory has me nailed to the lukewarm afternoon
and I resemble the shadow of a body buried yesterday,
a shadow that looks to the north, to the south,
that seeks, without finding, the path...”
― Victor Terán