The subject of my dreams
is composed
of the most untoward things.
A castle in the sea
from where I didn’t see
a broken orange sunset.
A stain of a volcano without fire
wounded by a city that surrounds it
from a tram that leads me
to the South.
An animal groaning in the distance
just when I’m not able
to assist him.
A rainy afternoon with an umbrella.
Another imperfect searching for a hug.
If somebody could read
the hidden tapestry of my dreams
would call me a coward.
Sometimes I wake up
as if the world were growing elsewhere
and it was enough to buy a chair
between the sky and bed,
that spatial ship that drives me
as a cheap cinematograph
to the dubious future
of another route with you.
But the end is always announced
in white letters
on a dark backdrop.
As you can see,
against the grain of life,
I keep dreaming about you.
Translated by Marisa Martínez Pérsico
EN 
MK