La Esperanza ya no ha de venir
a este voluble purgatorio de bichos.
Desaparecen ante nuestros ojos
las ilusiones en bucles fascinantes
se esfuman las esperas de antaño
en número infinito de espirales
lacerando con sus candentes esquirlas
este desangelado astro huérfano
que oficia como portal de humos
entremezclando infierno y cielo
al sueño trampantojo del tiempo.

The Great Red Dragon And The Beast From The Sea, William Blake

Bugs

On the next diligence
Our Mistress must arrive.
When the august lady
descends from the carriage
adorned intensely
with her arcane jewels
the souls will kiss
in mystical, in beatific rapture
their overloaded rings
ceremoniously
we will touch the hems of their skirts
we will beg for her blessing
we will throw ourselves at her feet
and there we will lie
like bugs that represent
an inscription of remembrance.

She has not yet arrived. Our Mistress is late
nor has she sent any messages to the cartwright
and it has become dark for us.
The bugs wretched, evicted
scattered along the roadsides
to enlighten us in this foundling hour
we have gathered, with great difficulty, rotten logs
that give off a miserable smell as they burn
in this distant landscape painted with amnesia.

Hope will no longer come
to this fickle purgatory of bugs.
Disappear before our eyes
the illusions in fascinating loops
the waits of yesteryear fade away
in an infinite number of spirals
lacerating with their burning splinters
this dreary orphaned star
that officiates as a portal of smoke
intermingling hell and heaven
to the trompe l'oeil dream of time.

_{Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)}