I am the illusion that got lost in the kneaded

earth, the plaster that fell from the buildings,

the train that sang in the sanitarium,

I AM THE LOST ILLUSION
the nightmare of a lovable Dracula,
Miguel Ángel Fornerín
the wound that bled in the lonely heart.

I am what you imagined

I am the illusion
walking over the marshes,
lost in the cavern,
he of the blue arms bamboozling
the unfound link,
life with sex,
the craven that shines out,
I am what I imagine,
the silence that marked the bight,
traveling on your naked
the river that skirts hell,
breasts,
the rocking of the earthquake,
the unfortunate that carried
the heart that beats in diastole
his misery through dark streets
and drips honey and soft music.
on clear days and bitter afternoons.
I am a thread of lost illusion,
I am what was dreamt in cheap illusions;
the fond corner in the neighborhood,
he who shouted your name in the market
the minute that sings with the new moon, place,

the champagne that bubbles in the mud, he who painted the walls with your memory,

the gush of blood in the hospital, he who fell in the frying pan of desire;

the ivory of the billiard balls, I am he who climbed up to the skies,

the speckled suits on the monuments, who lived in glory

the stalactite sleep in a mother’s arms, and hated himself in the brothels of hell.

the flower that withers the afternoon Translation by Giovanni Di Pietro

on a Sunday, the drain releasing its

contempt, the butcher’s table in the

market,