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Más allá del sepulcro

За гробом

La bóveda secreta, subterránea,
esconde los sepulcros de los grandes,
a esbeltas pecadoras, errabundas,
los suenos inflamados del diablo.

Apenas hayas muerto, gloria o pena,
un viejo poderoso y descarnado
te clava la mirada en la mirada.
La muerte, el lento tedio, es su secreto.

Te llevan, por pasillos, de una torre
y llegas a otra torre, la pupila
vidriosa, presa, fija, exorbitada,
y entiendes que este sueño será eterno.

Y al punto de caer en esa tumba,
comienzas a soñar con santuarios;
y sientes junto a ti a la pecadora,
sus dientes nacarados y sus besos.

Su abrazo lentamente, con dulzura,
te envuelve con maldad, sin fin, callada.
No puedes ya gritar, huir, moverte.
Por siempre o nunca más. Eso es lo eterno.

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