I think, in these hours, of you, my love,
burning as I do in merciless insomnia;
wanting your eyes, seeking the curve of your hip,
I feel the promises impressed by your lips.
I repeat the ringing syllables of your name,
hear the martial accent of your step;
I open my chest, I bare my heart—this
weepy embrace is but lying art.
My bed is languid and lugubrious,
for you, sun of my craving, angel of kisses,
are gone, and I am alone and delirious.
I look at life with mortal rue;
all this, my lord, is due to you,
for it’s a week since I have screwed.
burning as I do in merciless insomnia;
wanting your eyes, seeking the curve of your hip,
I feel the promises impressed by your lips.
I repeat the ringing syllables of your name,
hear the martial accent of your step;
I open my chest, I bare my heart—this
weepy embrace is but lying art.
My bed is languid and lugubrious,
for you, sun of my craving, angel of kisses,
are gone, and I am alone and delirious.
I look at life with mortal rue;
all this, my lord, is due to you,
for it’s a week since I have screwed.
La Estatua de Sal © 1988 Legitimos Sucesores de Salvador Novo, S.C. (Heirs of Salvador Novo). Translation © 2013 by Marguerite Feitlowitz. Excerpt from Pillar of Salt: An Autobiography, with 19 Erotic Sonnets by Salvador Novo, translated by Marguerite Feitlowitz, forthcoming 2013. By permission of the University of Texas Press. All rights reserved.
