My rose—

Long have I searched the oases of this desert
hunting rivers to their fountain.

On the dry plain I have turned earth
and bramble with these frail hands.

Years have I combed the edge of the sea
the estuaries and the winds…

And invaded secret gardens at midnight
cloaked only by moths’ sweet scent, my nakedness.

Even among the stars, sifting faint crystals
I sought —eventually found— a perfect seed.

There could be no other.

                               —punto chivato, baja
                               —25 abril 99