BEAUTY AT ELEVEN
You are not of May,
but of the entire year.
Your scent carries me back to the time of guadua (bamboo),
of mud and bahareque;
to somersaults upon the dew.
Dance of clouds, silhouette of stars,
amidst tales of ghosts and spirits.
Guitar, beer, and the gypsy fire.
Even the local priest
danced with the most celebrated seeress.
My Gypsy!
Beauty at Eleven:
the hour, and the eternity of the day.
Laskiaf Amortegui
All Rights Reserved
Colombia
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