The nostalgia of no longer having that intimate resonance, nor the audacity of your mouth igniting my blood...

Nevertheless, your body burns again like yesterday in my memory, although it's no longer the same hour nor the same love as before.

The memories across the extended landscape that drowns life in the serene wait for forgetfulness shivering in this endless reality.

My lips are muffled by you and they slip into the inertia of desire, in the kneaded caresses of your flesh, in the hollow of my arms; the insistent panting in the wet bed of leaves and sand, with that trembling language that was a part of the witchcraft of those days.

The weeping willows, the moss, ferns, algae, and culanrillos emerged from between the rocks, and like dead, slippery tentacles, they entwined our bodies, while the light of a veiled moon carpeted the quiet ground.

Something descends to the heart of being itself and foams like a daydream in whatever corner of our killing fields of Cerro Leon, legends swelling in the beautiful backdrop of hills and plains, scenes of homeric epics. I visualize those historic epochs, and investigate it with my imagination, hearing voices, I leap over peregrinating images under whose metallic light the fields are lit up, the whisper of the noises and blows dragged down by the distance.

Those were days of happy certainty; doubt had not yet shadowed our souls; we believed in God, in life, and we enjoyed a warm, sweet abandon.

We felt the profound joy that the rural dimension imposes, the freedom of the wide-open spaces, the green of those fields colored by the Agosto Poty, with the intoxicating scent of the mallow enveloping this cellular life.

Poems recovered from our memory, that in the confusion of years we sometimes believe we have merely imagined, offering compensations to the soul with immediate associations filtered between the fog of those that were inaccessible until now, memories with shapes having the unreality of dreams.