One of her nipples was red, tepid, carnal; the other, blue, looked made for
death's caress. They also brought to mind the luxurious faucets of a
There's a story of a woman who was devoured by the moon. It's said that her
cries were made of silver.
Never write the words "tiger" and "dove" in the same line, for the first may
devour the second.
I was fascinated by the cloud the farmer kept anchored to the door of his
hack: "It's very docile," he explained, "and we milk it three times a week.
That's all the land needs."
I knew that he had assassinated the sea, for his hands were stained blue.
"That swan is a rapist!" the frightened girl shouted at me, pointing at the
erect neck of a ferocious swan. And I, who through some strange interference
shared her dreams, proposed at that instant that we exchange nightmares.
The girls came running: "The sea, the sea!" they shouted.
"There's a wave made of gold!"
I asked her to, I asked her like a child asking for the impossible: she took
off her shoes and clothes and walked all night long on the sea.
It was a forest of infinite trees, and each tree had a swing, and in each
swing was a dead child waiting to be resurrected.
A boy whose eyes were darkening asked me, "When I die, will the sea cease to
exist?" I chose not to disillusion him.
Estrada, Devoured by the Moon,
traducció de Steven J. Stewart]