28 November XXXV





firetongue fans her face in the flute the cup
which singing to her gnaws at the blue stabwound
so attractive seated
in the bull’s eye
inscribed in his head adorned with jasmine
awaits the swelling the candle the fragmented crystal
the wind enveloped in the collar of the broadsword
gushing caresses
divides the bread for the blindman and the lilac-
covered dove
and bursts open its utter cruelty against burning lips
the devious horn
that frightens with its gestures of goodbye the cathedral
that faints in her arms without a cry
bursting in her glance the threatening radio
that photographing in the kiss a nuisance of Sun
devours the aroma of the hour that falls
and transgresses the page that flies
undoes the little branch that carries immersed between
the wing that breathes
and the fear that smiles
the knife that jumps from contentment
leaving her still floating as she wants and
in whatever manner
at the precise and necessary moment
in the mouth of the well
the cry of the rose
strapped by the hand
like a small almsgiving



Pablo Ruiz Picassso