THE STARRY CENTAUR
Your loves trampled the heavenly meadows.
I heard about that horses' madness,
I knew that you kill.
Here I am, I lie with head in the mud,
with all my mirrors in the palm,
after one of your dreams that ran over me.
Someone blows in my nape.
Someone's mane entangles me in a net.
And again I drawn voluntarily
in the tears hung on the blue hair.
Although I know that you are a lie,
a travelling work of the stars.
Dream, murderer.
Your eyes, the silent massive births,
guard before the frightful star-birds of
the cold.
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