BLOOD IN A BUCKET

I let you go
and chance has sectioned you
with its sharp blade of anguish
with the guillotine of action
with the oxidized and blunt memory
and scattered you to the wind

Under some doubtful order,
you fall again and again in my handkerchief
yet unpredictable, with immunity,
your chin,
breasts,
tongue,
your hair,
they all fall.

your understanding fell last,
late for me to clean the blood,
but it remains fresh,
as a wound in every piece of doubt.
and your perimeter always bleeds
in the delay,
the delay,
the delay,

delay...
and I see in the floor,
the puddle,
and I don't know
if the blood is yours,
or mine.

(translated from Spanish)

Bernardo Farill ©

farill@mail.internet.com.mx