M.M.C.

I look at your face.

I imagine we would have been happy
if I was young
like you
without a past
without the convictions we purchase from time.

I look at your face
and it confirms
that nothing makes sense any longer:
your beauty should be the salt of all my days
your youth would give me twenty more years of life.

I look at your face
and wonder:

Who determined this routine separation of ages?

Who, fidelity unyielding like iron?

Who took reality from us
and left us only desire?

Traslated from Spanish by Rowena Hill