Ricardo Guiraldes translated by Christopher Ringrose Bark

The Moon is round, white and distant.

The world is at peace, and so are we.

A foretaste of death.


The breeze breaks into fragments, enters our chest like a prayer.

Even the colours are in mourning.

A pale road wanders away.

Shadows are flattened and elusive.

A toad gargles its Rs.

The frogs sound as though they’re chewing sticks.

Venus winks her piercing eye towards the earth.

Crickets sing of the glories of glass.

The wind moving amongst the branches only deepens the silence.

Palm trees register the invisible pallor of the air.

A Phoenix’s hair rises, spiny, horrified by the night.

Metal eucalyptus leaves cut tear-shaped pieces from the moon.

Silence itself falls asleep.

A foretaste of death.

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