Zamira Loves Wolves

Zamira loves wolves.
I would like to go with her to look for them
in the highlands,
where the red oaks of Sotillo
have lost their leaves in the streams,
there where the horses
drink the frozen water of the waterfalls
and snow is waited for
like a blessing.

You and I are in this hospital
waiting for death.
Not your death or my death
but the death of those who gave us life.
And those – to whom will they pass on,
when they die, their deaths?
You and I waiting for the end,
the empty space on the edge,
while life shines and trembles between us
like an innocent knife.
And in this, waiting for the death of others,
we wait a little for our own death.

Perhaps, therefore, Zamira loves the wolves.
Perhaps, therefore, I also want
to go out with her and find them this December
on the high moors, in the remote meadows.

And we would see the hawthorn,
and the blood-red embers of the sun
in the purple willow trees.
Already we have over our eyes
the blindfold of snow,
so we do not think any more, so we are no longer dazzled
by the harsh brightness of the operating rooms.
Zamira loves the wolves
and wants to escape from the stone and glass labyrinth
of pain.
Zamira: let’s leave and not come back.