[Traduccion al ingles, de R. P. Espaillat:]
Dark retina, dark bedchamber. Mobile nest of hungry prophetic voices. I strip away the cold skeleton of my shadow (stepping into harsh weather, the clear path of one drop of rain) leaving behind like crushed discarded fruit the stupefied sperm of a pair of eyes.
I am and unfold in almost ethereal form along the sighted crystal that notes, without a trace, the night-darkened features of the dense world. I stumble on a wall, and then a coach traveling at the velocity of police sirens. The wind flies me, tears me apart in the air, adds unfamiliar scars to those I assume exist.
The night gathers itself anew around me. It sniffs, as at a corpse discovered by dogs (the night poses its terrors, threatens to assault me by surprise, to sink its teeth into the native core of my bowels).
But the night prefers to run away, must run away, runs away; the clamor of lightning provokes the winddrift that bears me on to the very depths of the city, then to continue falling, then to become endlessly some rancid thing, some crust-covered indefinable thing that finally vanishes, that later returns to the dark mildness of my shadow, to the cold skeleton of a bedchamber, to the only voice I recognize among so many…
“Una gota de lluvia,” Jimmy Valdez Osaku
(tr. Rhina P. Espaillat, dic. 26, 2014)