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The frost was whitening the trees and the lawn as the snow. I was waking up by the way to look it and to be felt with more intensity by the heat of the room and of your presence. To risk out seemed to run on long knives. After remaining awhile against the glass of the large window I was huddling again to your side. Slept or I wake up you were taking me among your arms and were wishing me though in this moment, absent-mindedly, for pure instinct. To continue sleeping I was parting with your heat and was remaining extended to your side as the great chimney of a medieval castle: you these long logs, I was greyhound that was dreaming the mysterious dreams of the greyhounds. The physical love is a sad thing, inasible, disconsolate: the platonic love is a sad thing, inasible, disconsolate. We are the perfect image of total love.
Selection:
Jardin passengers (Los pasajeros del Jardín), Silvina Bullrich,
Novel (1971)
Novel (1971)