come out graceful, victorious, clear,
stick your tongue out of vacant loves,
write one to a million poems that sing
the diamond-like fortune of old and new lovers,
to boast of oblivion, to applaud the revenge,
sneak through an ovary of time and walk uneven
of years, of sensual bone, of leeward.
I have, in my heart, that he who, in effect, forgot
he doesn't need to enact it to feel in his eyes
the applause of the world, the approval of the sexes.
he usually talks about peace who has not yet achieved it
who usually speaks of strength who still knows himself weak
He usually talks about a thousand loves who have not yet gotten rid of one.
and strut their golden feathers
and they walk through the avenues of the city 
and fill hostels, drink canned beer,
ah, shout, shout, airy victorious loquacious eyelids.
a thousand lovers, says his mouth boastfully and writes her hieroglyph.
time, said the philosopher, is a river.
luckily for our future generations all of us
we will be freed from plains and moons and banners.
our hats will remain floating in the waters of time
and our words.