Buenas noticias

That inconsolable band of dogs without a pamphlet,
witches of simple soul, pathetic travelers.
Poor fools, poor devils, lunatic diamonds
promised of flesh, languid, impalpable
are my lovers...

Good news arrives from the hidden ones,
from the convalescents for the dreamers.
My breath no longer waits
(there is no beast in my fang)
but I devour, wounded
the space and the brightness
of my lovers.

Some relapse
(a little sudden hiccup)
for the fugitives marked by fire
and some spell
(all very simple)
if nothing moves you
not even the shootings
of my lovers...