A beloved hand, when the night
imposes its habit of insomnia
and makes every minute on the anniversary
of all events of a life;
there
in the darkest corner of helplessness, where
and yesterday he never trace their shadows cross,
memories haunt me. Some
wielding your green eyes,
other support in my back
white soul of a distant dream,
and inaudible voice, with relentless
silent lips,
oblivion or your life!,
call me.
recognize faces.
not stealing the body.
close my eyes to see
and stabbing me feel cold,
precisely with that old iron
:
memory.
Ángel González
