My tongue makes no bones about love letters, and I can't understand what they're afraid of. I want to fall into your arms, and your warm mouth! For that moment there is nothing but love. And I can't understand why a voice calls: "Stay with me! Stay with me!" But I know we must part. The voice repeats itself: "Stay with me! Stay with me!" I should, perhaps, call a doctor to wipe away this madness! In the end, people stop going to the theater. There's a kind of conspiracy of silence. I don't think it's a good thing. A poet should not let himself be silenced, but I don't mind dying of a broken heart. Yes, I'll love you eternally in secret. I'll die a poor man with no name, but you will remain as a memory of beauty. I should say thank you for what you have given to my soul, you who opened a door to me into an immense inner space. It was I who walked into the light, I, who found the place I was supposed to occupy, soaring upwards to the summit of love. ## [THE BLUE BOMBARDA (TO GÜNDO) ( _Barcelona_ )](contents.html#RFM_14) I love you, Gundo, in your blue _barcoche_ with its two white plumes of feathers that you stick in your hair. I love the way you dress, the blue waistcoat, the fine cravat, the white gloves with your monogram. You have your own taste in everything, the right way to tie a shoelace. We'll go to the Prado, I think, and to the Matisses of Catalonia. I'll show you my favorite Titian. I'll tell you my favorite story, my story of the blue _barcoche._ You say the world is beautiful, every city has a touch of eternity to its stone, to its buildings. For me, however, cities have an air of chaos, of dust and chaos, of disorder, of people elbowing one another, of buildings that look like buildings, of people who have escaped from factories, of people who should never leave the ground, or from the fields, and of people who never saw any real joy. People who have been born who want to live another way, who walk under the sky, who turn back to the trees, who sing. The most handsome of all the _barcoches_ beneath the moon. In silence. When it's time for people to die, they all rush to the cemetery. When it's time for the sun to rise, they all rush into the streets to breathe the air. That's why the sky's so blue, that's why there are white plumes of feathers, that's why I don't like people who never leave the ground, or who never saw any real joy. You like the blue of the sky, you know all about the seasons of the sky, the spring, the summer, and the autumn, and about the storms and their rain. This is the kind of memory you have of me, and your love, your hand, a blue _barcoche,_ and your gaze, which has never met mine. And we live for a moment like two stars. We must not think of the future. We must not think of who will die, who will live, what will happen, the past is a dead letter, just a lie, just a tale told by some fat man, by a fat child who sleeps under his arm. The future is the moment we inhabit, the moment that is before us and that contains our dreams. And when you have time to sleep, it will seem that the sky is bluer, and that the blue _barcoche_ looks like the world. # THE LITTLE MARINER ( _Barcelona_ ) ## [THE LITTLE MARINER ( _En verano_ )](contents.html#RFM_15) In a white cotton frock, I see the summer as you see it, its blue water and green sky, its white boats on the sea, its islands, its fish, its ships arriving from afar. And from there you see our window, we hear a bird singing in the air, and it's as if we were sailing to the land of happiness. The day passes, and that evening you arrive in my dream. ## [PACO DE ARGELA ( _Madrid_ )](contents.html#RFM_16) Here it is, my little sailor, this morning the breeze is coming from the mountains, and the white gulls cry at your window. Here it is, my little sailor, my little sailor in Madrid, who has a love affair with the breeze, with the white sun on your bed, and with those white sheets. Here it is, my little sailor, my little sailor who dreams of the sea. And here it is, my little sailor, when the wind blows and throws me down in the sand, bewildered and dizzy, but thinking of the girl. ## [THE SEA WALL ( _Málaga_ )](contents.html#RFM_17) Do you like the sea, do you like the wall of the sea? And do you like to come back from the edge of the sea? It's dark. Sometimes you're at the edge of the sea. ## [IN THE SPRING ( _Barcelona_ )](contents.html#RFM_18) The day is beautiful, and there are voices, I'm sure of it, and there's a child's laughter. Sometimes we hear it as children in the spring. ## [SPRING HAS ARRIVED ( _Barcelona_ )](contents.html#RFM_19) The sun is like a little girl who walks with her dog. The leaves are like dogs running to see the girl. The sky is like a girl's lap. We sit down. We talk. ## [SPRING HAS ARRIVED ( _Barcelona_ )](contents.html#RFM_20) The birds are like children who run on the grass, and who jump, laughing. ## [THE DOG THAT SMELLED THE BIRD ( _Madrid_ )](contents.html#RFM_21) It's the dogs that smell the bird. He walks in the dark with his nose to the ground. It's the dogs that smell the bird. He walks in the dark with his nose to the ground. ## [AT THE BOSPHORUS BAR ( _Barcelona_ )](contents.html#RFM_22) From the Bosporus to the Mediterranean, all my friends had a different name. They were men and women, the children of other men and women, with different ages, languages, stories, dreams. They were all my friends, my comrades. And one of them was called El Pérez Galdós, who died in 1955. When they die we don't take revenge. We say " _Vale_ " to them. The other evening I was with friends, when they asked me, " _Vale_ , who are you?" I told them, "I am you, my friends, my comrades, who are waiting for death." ## [THE COOCHIN DANCER ( _Barcelona_ )](contents.html#RFM_23) He comes in the darkness, dressed in white, wearing a flower in his hair. The music starts up. She dances to the piano. ## [SOMEWHERE ON THE SPREE ( _Madrid_ )](contents.html#RFM_24) We walk for miles and miles and don't think about anything, and don't think about anything, we walk for miles and miles, walking and talking about things that are not important, walking and talking about things that are not important. ## [SHE IS TOUCHING ( _Barcelona_ )](contents