Answers To Diffusion Osmosis Lab

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an hour standing next to a dead abandoned ship, full of graffiti,
the person next to me talking all the time on the phone,
each word with a clearly irritating, can not think of anything ,
I feel trapped, I look out and see a rabbit moving through the underbrush
soot;
then it becomes just a start for us, remains motionless.

Soft, clean meat hard under the thick fur, very attractive;
reminds me of young children who spend way to school by our
street
his brash, grace unconscious, the urgency you feel to share your
beauty, then my mind
amuses himself trying to pull in its most savage creature
get to know of my admiration, I know she loves me.

All the while we're there, I almost painful to be near her, as if she inhabited
certain mystery, a look almost sacred, but if I sensed
not pay attention to me, and when we started to move
still expected between black gravel ballast, raised ears and whiskers,
to be sure we're good and we have left before moving on.

The train is moving fast, blurry people, the voice of my neighbor is
tiresome;
very hot here in the open field but grass is stiff and white with frost.
Imagine being out there alone, panic chips that make you shiver, with those bright
rails before you, surrounded by an immense silence,
prodigious
only now beginning to wane, the wind rises, the thunderous cracking of a branch.

(Jaime Priede translation - extracted from Repair)

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Train" Repair "Circle of Light

"Circle of Light", the literary magazine Eva Orúe firm in Divertinajes.com echoes the impending arrival of the English lisbrerías Repair. You can read your link clicking here.

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'm leaning
looking down a deep cleft in the earth
where
tiny cars and people moving by his narrow background.
Although I protect my father's arms
me realize how long it would fall, how much danger
: I cringe, I grab my father
stronger.
Was that really a crack?
No, I understood later, much later,
we were in a building somewhere
leaning out the window watching the street.

A picture book: the light of the desert,
a man and a woman in sandals,
pastel robes, bathrobes loose
working a sort of dough, kneading
man in a manger,
women cast into a wheel.
For some reason I thought they were angels in heaven
, practicing human affairs.
Was there any truth to that?
No, the book in Sunday School, represented
an everyday scene from the Bible
in which they were just doing jars.
Only
jars, but those threads of light obscured
clay as the color of the skin is numb
under
her hands and I knew in the turgidity of the meat, which would check
later when
to alone with someone in the dark
closed his eyes and stroked
hands and mouth all over, trying to experience an ideal
, part of the radiation

who passionately believed that there were,
and not just in the imagination .

O, with love itself, love
next to me without delay as
intense, so convincing each time and every time
destroys me
when clouds and collapses
leaving me alone with the memory of his presence.
Have I ever experienced true love?
Have I perverted if so?
Even now I feel a chill fear
to think that I could not have found you, my love
or not believing in you, and rolling gait even on another roof.

(Translated by Jaime Priede)