When the afternoon closes its windows ...

by

Xavier Villaurrutia



When the afternoon closes your remote windows,

its invisible doors,

so that the dust, the smoke, the ash,

impalpable, dark,

slow as the work of death

in the child's body,

grow up;

when the afternoon, at last, has collected

the last flash of light, the last cloud,

the forgotten reflection and the interrupted noise,

the night comes silently

of secret slots,

of hidden corners,

of half-open mouths,

of sleepless eyes.


Night rises with dense smoke

of the cigarette and the fireplace.

The night emerges wrapped in its mantle of dust.

The dust rises, slow.

And from an impassable sky,

getting closer and more compact,

it rains ash.


When the night of smoke, dust and ash

envelops the city, the men are left

suspended a moment,

because it was born in them, with the night, the desire.



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