Y sé que hay más estrellas que éstas:
en mi sueño yo tenía tres llaves...
Rozo sus cadáveres multicolores con la yema de los dedos
y les retiro el polvo de sus labios de marfil.
Os dije que ella tenía hermanos.
Él es el Guardián.
O el Vigilante (todos sabemos que hay cosas que no tienen sólo un nombre).
Al deslizarse desprende un tenue aroma a bronce y a cuero, a polvo y hojas secas.
Lo has visto alguna vez, lo sabes.
Él, como Guardián, nunca olvida; pero las personas sí.
Claro que no es una persona.
¿Por qué querría nadie ser una persona…?
And I know that there are more stars than these ones:
in my dream I had three keys...
I brush their multicolored corpses with my fingertips
and remove the dust from their ivory lips.
I told you she had brothers.
He is the Guardian.
Or the Watcher (we all know that there are things that don't have only one name).
While he slides, he gives off a subtle scent of bronze and leather, of dust and dried leaves.
You have seen him sometime, you know it.
He, as a Guardian, never forgets; but people often do.
Of course he is not a person.
Why would anyone want to be a person…?
He is the Guardian.
Or the Watcher (we all know that there are things that don't have only one name).
While he slides, he gives off a subtle scent of bronze and leather, of dust and dried leaves.
You have seen him sometime, you know it.
He, as a Guardian, never forgets; but people often do.
Of course he is not a person.
Why would anyone want to be a person…?
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