Fictions Of Fingers

the explanation: i wrote this first in english (with a somewhat foolish rhythm) and i wrote it to someone, but now it does not seem to matter cause that "someone" is never gonna read it... i notice it may not seem a passionate poem but it is almost a kind of confession....

et enfin... quelques jours libres, j'en ai besoin pas seulement pour loisir, quand même pour travailler à le roman, et aussi je dois essayer d'égarer ma tête de quelques dangereux désirs... j'éspere que cet texte soit le prèmier et le dérniere...


FICCIONES DE LOS DEDOS

Dime, dime,
¿dónde te escondes?
¿Dónde podría encontrarte esta noche?
Todo este tiempo
con tus pupilas brillantes,
sabía que sólo podías estar pensando
en el tiempo en tus manos.

Ficciones de los dedos
deslizándose en las calles,
ficciones de un moribundo que hoy,
como siempre se aferra
a los sueños, y ficiones de pasión:
esas ficciones son dulces,
pues derrotan a la memoria
y a sus obstáculos.

Jamás te he visto dormir.
Tú jamás
has escondido tus miradas de mí;
mas no existe nada tan doloroso
como el aullido del viento
mientras va arrancando las hojas
de este árbol revuelto.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

FICTIONS OF FINGERS

Tell me, tell me
where do you hide?
Where should I meet you tonight?
All this time
your eyes were shinning so bright
I knew you could only be thinking
of time in your hands.

Fiction of fingers
slides on the streets,
fiction of a dying who is
clinging always onto dreams
and fictions of passion,
those fictions are sweet,
they defeat memory and its obstacles.

You do not ever sleep.
You never
hide your looks from me;
but there is nothing as painful
as the howling of wind
while it's ripping off leaves
from this shaken tree.