The moon walks on its window
with the glamor of the 20s distilling on the earth:
memories that are crowded, pains that transport
And a mass of vague sensations that dance on the air,
clouded that stupendous walk of the cold lady.
The peace on the puppet's lips is burned and consumed quickly.
Hateful her teacher, the melancholy,
that opens each of the faucets
flooding the small stage of that viscous liquid.
And with vigor pull the strings of the stomach,
lips,
tongue,
eyes,
pull strong to increase the desire to consume
the peace that lies in the fingers of the puppets.
