READING

I do not speak of the Sun, but the moon
that lights up forever this poem
where a herd of children is persecuted by the wolves
and verse sings a hymn to the pus.
Oh impure love! Love of the syllables and the letters
that destroy the world, that relieve it
of be true, be there for nothing, as an stream
that does not reflect my image, mirror of the vampire.
of that, since the page
goes to suck your blood, reader
and converted into tear and nothing:
and do you commune with the steel.