Intramuros of Two Augusts



The ruined convent on Calle Real
appear as a skeleton of beams (where life escapes,
without echoes), the blood mixed
in the concrete, histories under the dust,
dreams under the rubble.

It was last August
when my body last knew yours,
the first time we met
as bodies, just bodies, as knots
Before that we were steel and muscles,
Muscles and steel. Now we bond with the dust
Of what we were, the dust to which we were,
Hundred of years we embraced our deaths,

Woven now to what we weave,
Our threads and the clothes in which
We become, now that our love
Is called death, now that our
World has become smaller, just us,
Our dust, becomes a knot between us and our past.


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