Everything so unremarkable so apparently simple
the irate Friday noon with its buzz of a fly in Summer
and Bogotá green and vibrant
its parks suddenly gay through the taxi's window
and in it the torpor the slow drive to wholly alien places
the song on the radio like a spider's net growing and growing
life here could be real
but death
has a carnival mask on and laughs
and then you turn up
no you don't come from outside from the shuddering air
you come up inside me through the esophagus to my firm throat
splendid in your Friday
under your sun that is not mine
the spider's net tangles up its threads in my eyes and you're gone again
and whoever looked at me would see a woman calmly looking at the view
not someone about to jump into the void
someone already jumping
while she looks at the watch without seeing the time.

Translation: 2005, Nicolás Suescún