VI

From the book Ballads and Self-Portraits

Translated by Amanda Castro

How do I know that this day is not another?

How do I know I didn’t live this day other days?

In which instant, which day or week, year, did

My eyes start to fall behind?

In which moment, that isn’t mine I smoked this cigarette

Kissed this girl and told her good bye or simply cried

My successive deaths?

How was it that these poppies of blood bloomed

in my memory?

Who will believe this offering of words?

Who said it smells like death, this life of yours without

A single tear?

What would the future hold, when I roll the days

up the hill already without you?