Like a dragonfly shimmering within a jar, such is the woman held by your gaze. From her open hands there blossoms three flames. Petals that turn into thorns, thorns that turn into amethysts. At this hour, the violet of gasoline is the most sensible perfume; fire encircles the drawings of her body: mandorla. Slowly, the flame crosses her soul, which is ours as well. Lights respond to the tongue’s sweet beckoning. In silence, the union ascends. Breath is a light. It is fitting that this fire never be extinguished.
Such is what I witnessed on the island that evaporates at dawn.
Translated from Spanish by Anthony Seidman.