NIGHT
When both are suffering sleepless and blood
hear that passes only the rage in the marrow
trembles spabilado hatred and the spinal
continuous burning revenge, the words and
S o do not work: they are words.
Balas. Balas.
Manifestos, articles, reviews, di scursos, smoke
missed, mist printed.
my aching q ue papers has to sweep the wind, how sad
ink to blot the water!
Balas. B wings.
Now I suffer what poor, petty, sad, unhappy and dead
as having a throat
when from the depths of their language
scream like that can not impossible, and silent.
Balas. Balas.
tonight I feel death arid the words.
Rafael Alberti
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