hands
Vicente Aleixandre (Sevilla, 1898-1984)
Look at your hand, which moves slowly,
transparent, tangible, crossed by light,
beautiful, lively, almost human at night.
With reflection of the moon, with a sore cheek, vaguely
sleep and watch it grow, as you raise your arm,
vain search for a lost night, light
wing cross in silence
carnal touch that dark vault.
phosphorescent not your sorrow has not caught
that hot throb of another flight. Hand wheel
persecuted: groups.
Sweet, dark and dull, you cross. You are the lovers
vocations
signs in the darkness without sound appealing. Heaven
extinguished stars that warm,
field gives you silent flight. Hands
lovers who died recently, life hands
fliers seeking
and when they collide and narrow light on men
instant moon.
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