What a wonderful mystery the moon is,
astronomers have come to explain it,
science declares it a natural satellite of the Earth,
The poets call her a white mare, a precious stone, a clear hare,
Sailors point to it to find the direction,
The Man steps on it with his robots
and with his sandals made at NASA,
the photographer photographs her and wins awards,
and the fisherman in his boat earns his bread
observing the cane stained by the
white blood of the moon,
one day we will leave this house that rotates on
his own apple pelvis, and there will be no more moon, no name moon, or anything,
It's really a mystery to look at her,
always know it embedded in the night
like a tenacious anchor, in love,
and one calls him moon, he calls him luna, mond, lua,
and she doesn't answer anything,
she crumples sleeping stones by the sea
and she throws them turned into silver fish,
It matters little that the human episteme says
that there is nothing, no mystery, no bowl of
Hopefully, there are those of us who carry on our chests
an exact replica of the moon,
that we naively call heart
or soul, we remain stubborn in the
amazement, what is it, what does it expect, what does it seek,
above all, what are you looking for on Earth,
the moon of the harlots, of the poets,
of those who return home with their backs
broken by hours worked, what are you looking for?
the moon, century after century, night after night,
what mysterious vengeance shakes her,
what the hell feed her naked tit,
what an inopportune love, the inopportune one
to insist like that, white bitch,
Adored girl, I would like to stir your golden viscera, to know and be silent, luna, mond, lua,
what you are looking for in this house.