Your Throat

by

Horacio Quiroga

Summer lost its external fire;

and in the late afternoon light

smiled at your petticoat on the shore

the indifferent grace of winter.


I was going to watch with you the first

violet night of a modern country,

the sea sounded under the eternal wind,

the breadth of her deaf hoarseness.


And like the sea in its childish glosses

prolong the silence of things,

filled the silence, eat a voice that enchants,


in the soft saline twilight,

under your navy colored cup,

the sonorous giu-giu of your throat.

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