In Comala, I understood
that you shouldn't try to return to the place where you were happy.

When, on a regular flight,
I landed in the skies of Madrid,
a newlywed was waiting for me
who didn't remember me.

And braving the waves,
without rudder or helmsman,
through my veins flows, light on luggage,
on a nutshell,
my traveling heart,
showing the tattoos
of a buccaneering past,
of a boarding sailboat,
of a woman's garter belt.

And how can I escape
when there are no more
islands to shipwreck
the country
where the wise retreat
from the grievance of seeking
lips that drive one mad,
lies that win trials
so summary that they debase
the glass of the aquariums
of the city fish

that lost their gills
in a school of trash fish,
on a beach without a sea.