Night, it is already night.
Inebriated, he walked.
Hanging from his tatter
the memories,
and of all of them
one
stands out victorious
hidden in the corner of his lips:

He knew the flavour of the snail,
was dazzled with the hidden amber,
recognized the differences between the honey and the sting.
No one will be able , now,
to captivate the scent of the saffron
and
the incandescence  of the labium.
The same that
- even in his solitude-
he maintains 
tenderly in his lips
and his tongue
keeps it awake.

Byron González