By Gonzalo De Lerma

    The sensation of being the only guest

    in a grand hotel on the outskirts of the city

    —and hearing the somnambulistic

    elevator and a scream—

    or being in an empty theater

    or in a lonely plaza

    of a lonely unknown city

    weighed down with suitcases and no money

    surrounded  by escaped doves

    from the studio of the worst taxidermist

    that ridiculous melancholy of one who feels ignored

    at the parties of younger people

    whom he calls late at night

    from a bar with the lights already turned off

    and talks to himself about the comforts

    of being an academic ghost

    of an orchestra conductor

    I fear， in the end， that I‘ve kissed

    The lips of a mistaken goddess