I've left the door ajar
I'm an animal that won't resign itself to death

eternity is the dark hinge giving way
a small noise in the night of the flesh

I am the island that moves forward held up by death
or a city savagely besieged by life

or maybe I'm nobody
only insomnia
and the brilliant indifference of the stars

a deserted destiny
inexorably the sun of the living rises
I recognize that door
there is no other

a springtime frost
and a thorn of blood
in the eye of the rose

This is a translation from the Peruvian poet Blanca Varela. The original is on my Spanish language blog. What interests me is that I wouldn't tolerate words like "vida" "muerte" "eternidad" in contemporary American poetry. In a Latin American poet I don't mind them at all.