The balconies of the Aranjuez, the silks
that come to rest on the green river: I stretch myself
like a column and enter your underskirts, fan

your palatial sadness, your pendant's
chain bewitched by the tremors of your body. I
go from mother

to father to the bed again, feeling how
your shoulders rise to my chest
transfiguring you into one whole great back I go on

to lick, on my knees. Let's not speak
of those breaths, we can wipe
one palate clean with the palate

of the other, with the green waters
that spill from your eyes burning
now from so much flight, such

distance traveled; a bit of heat. A hand
is raised high waving your handkerchiefs, your breath
drunken with the Aranjuez, of this scent that I blow to you

from afar and with force
so you can receive it at your port
and load the salty flesh,

the potable water, the winds of departure, the
ropes to stay disillusions, to
tie luck to the body of the dock.

All this serenity and I see the watered
face, the man-virgin face, fed up
with all the ruses, of my friend Julio Lareu.

His face flanked by two daughters,
my friend Julio Lareu.
Humble, the height of goodness,

a man of values, loving
his children, my heart lifted
in the traces of my friend Julio Lareu.

I come to desire nothing more
than your good fortune
friend, carpenter.