I bought a new edition of Gamoneda's Descripción de la mentira on my trip to Spain:

Rust settled on my tongue like the taste of a disappearance.

Forgetfulness entered my tongue and I had no conduct other than forgetfulness,

and I accepted no value other than impossibility.

Like a calcified ship in a country from which the sea has withrawn,

I listened to the surrender of my bones being deposited in rest;

I listened to the flight of insects and the retraction of of the shadows entering what was left of me;

I listened until the truth stopped existing in space and in my spirit,

and I could not resist the perfection of silence.



I do not believe in invocations but invocations believe in me.

They've come again like inevitable lichens. . .



***

The effect is strongly rhythmic even in this (improvised) translation. Gamoneda is the greatest living poet in Spain. If I had a willing publisher I would produce a version of this long poem and publish it tomorrow.