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Daughter of the wind

They have come.
They invade your blood.
They smell of feathers,
of absences,
of weeping.
 
But you feed fear
and solitude
like two small animals
lost in the desert.
 
They have come
to ignite the age of sleep.
A farewell is your life.
 
But you hug yourself
like a serpent maddened with movement
that only finds itself
because there is no one.
 
You weep beneath the weeping,
you open the coffer of your desires
and you are more rich than the night.
 
But it's so lonely
that the words commit suicide.
 

The night

I don't know much about the night
but the night seems to know about me
and still greater, attends to me as if she wanted me,
she covers my consciousness with her stars.
 
Maybe the night is life and the sun death.
Maybe the night is nothing
and the conjectures about her nothing
and the beings that live her nothing.
Maybe words are the only things that exist
in the enormous void of the centuries
that scratch our souls with their memories.
 
But the night must know the misery
that drinks our blood and our ideas.
She must cast hatred in our gazes
Knowing them to be full of interests, of disagreements.
 
But it so happens that I hear the night weep in my bones.
Her immense teardrop raves mad
and shouts that something has gone away forever.
 
Someday we will be again.
 

The Lack

I don't know anything about birds,
I don't know the history of fire,
but I believe my solitude should have wings.
 
Just learning.

Blue

my hands grew with music
behind the flowers
but now
why do I seek you out, night,
why do I sleep with your dead
 
I hope this was helpful! Any corrections are truly appreciated.
These translations are made with love and care, so it'd be great if you credited me whenever you repost them somewhere else!

Poem for the father

And it was then
that with a dead and cold tongue in his mouth
he sang the song they let him sing
in this world of obscene gardens and of shadows
which came at a mishour to remind him
of the songs of the time when he was a boy
in which he couldn't sing the song he wanted to sing
the song they let him sing
other than through his blue, absent eyes
through his absent mouth
through his absent voice.
Then, from the highest tower of absence
his singing resounded in the opacity of what is hidden
in the silent extension
full of movable voids like words
which I write down.