Jorge Urrutia A Lie
nap, love,
in the memory of mountains, springs, pine trees and ditches. Dress
Italianate love
reddish reflections in the river in the afternoon.
Drop your voice, love,
that my ears pick holes in wood and tiles,
before undertaking the trip
this language that saves me from the past.
Smile, love,
in the cold glass, after the green haze and water
depends on an edge of my soul.
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