This poem is called Heat Stroke.
I always have many flowers, my neighbor gives them to me.
I seem not to have the strength to go on with my confession.
That beautiful woman is a Chilean.
She is a fickle woman.
An intelligent, good woman, very beautiful.
That is the trouble, I never have the correct time.
You see the sense this is making.
The old presidential palace, always she
is tending the garden with loving excellence.
In one motion, everything at stake for that instant.
Some star fell down on her and so what?
But it's not as always, the fickle woman does not
die at the hands of her lover.
Many sharing an idea of beauty.
Beauty, a necessity in every breath fall.
This is what she is saying, but it's not as always.
And if not that need, then another.
Half visible on an errand.
Swept along, shape and shadow.
Use me and be done with it.
Tear them down and build them up, it's one motion.
Look back, what life has become.
The sky is clearly alien.
Amazement, star of my night bless the subtle shifts
of mood.
She is my desperate angel, so why expect anyone to believe?
To keep the myth squeezing itself.
The most sensible of savage choices.
Her soul and its misfire knocked once, an indelible stamp.