That which is there, breathing

Everything is the same,
All things in the same, old place:
the portrait on the cupboard,
the shirt hanging in the rack,
the particulars of a day.
Everything goes on the same and, however,
you have heard, you have a foreboding, you alertly fear,
hearing yourself,
hearing your secrets keeping secret.          
You know it’s there, that it looks at you,
that it has sniffed your guts and your bones,
that it measures you as a prey, as something eatable,
that same tension with which you stalk him.
Suddenly,
in an impetus of horror and infinite outrage,
its diamond spittle,
its unexpected tongue wetting your silence.

Eso que está ahí, respirando

Eso que está ahí, respirando

Todo está igual,
con los asuntos en su sitio de siempre:
el retrato sobre el mueble,
la camisa colgada en el ropero,
los pormenores del día.
Todo sigue lo mismo y, sin embargo,
has oído, presientes, alertamente temes,
oyéndote,
oyendo sigilar en tu sigilo.
Sabes que está ahí, que te mira,
que ha olfateado tus tripas y tus huesos,
que te mide como presa, como cosa ingerible,
esa misma tensión con que lo acechas.
De pronto,
en ímpetu de horror y atropello infinito,
su baba de diamante,
su repentina lengua mojándote el silencio.