There was no pain in poverty.
Love, with his swollen hegemony,
was as great as can be love in poverty.


I never knew hunger,
my bones grew with preterit crunches.
I knew neither hunger nor the golden plates that mitigate gluttony.


I was a presence in the oblivion
a winner margin in the assault that the day offers to the one who has not,
to the one who preserves the sweetness of the snow all year round.


There was no pain in my poverty,
The loin of my mother resisted abundant and lush,
twelve hours a day its curvature took over my shortage
and coal made us parishioners of alien and sweated heat.


Was sacred our absence of goods
and the smelling of rain and leak made up for the sadness of the sob.


My poverty was constant and smooth,
filled with rich delicacies that replaced fabrics and silvers
in the middle of a soluble candor,
as coffee in the frost on the window
or dreams full of espartos
loved deeply by the most loved widow in my story.


I never knew hunger but certainly fever.
Sweat and wrinkled skin were along my childhood.
The mosques of love were hidden to me
and only the cold tiles encouraged me at home.


I never knew hunger,
I’d have given days of desire to alleviate the weight of my mother,
but my narrowness was colossal and her life so enormous
as all what live in the folds of my desire.



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