Transitar de hormigas.
En este lienzo de días.
Repetición de cruces,
errores cometidos.
Ahora la piedra es símbolo,
Ataúd de carnes inservibles.
Podíamos volar,
pero lejos del sol.
Teníamos alas,
pero éramos polillas.
Algunas veces amamos.
No cejamos,
seguimos estaqueados,
a la misma playa,
entre costumbres
y odiosos poemas.
Transit of ants.
In this canvas of days.
Repetition of crosses,
mistakes made.
Now the stone is a symbol,
Coffin of useless flesh.
We could fly,
but far from the sun.
We had wings,
but we were moths.
Sometimes we loved.
We gave up,
we kept on staking,
to the same beach,
between customs
and hateful poems.
