The night is my return. I go over the museum of absence.

All suffering is useless for those who do not pursue poetry, for those who do not feed eagles with their eyes.

I exercise thirst. I only love those whom I could not save.

There is no longer a darkness to guide our dreams or the phantoms of inconclusive desire; only the abject exchange that has replaced ritual.

I do not seek, I lose . . .

And I don't even find a place for astonishment.

I can no longer forget. Nor do I pretend to know the three answers hidden by death.

Here nobody lacks the necessary hatred to recover paradise, or confess its rude fall during the day.

It must be shadow or shout. Return or birth.

Every origin will decree the abolition of the ego.

It is then that breathing will be green.

And even though I owe everything to pain . . . I advance, I fall. I choose the ways that have no end. Voices burn out darkness. The poem.

You know it, quivering body:

It is not in time where I have put my words.

Translation: 2008, Nicolás Suescún