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Read the original in Spanish. Eduardo Espina is one of the most renowned living contemporary Uruguayan poets. He has published a dozen books of poetry and essays, and won the two most important literary awards in his country: the National Prize of Essay and and the Municipal Prize of Poetry He is included in more than 30 anthologies of Latin American poetry. His writing has been translated into Spanish, French, Bulgarian, and Turkish. He lives in Chicago. El cutis patrio Excerpts Eduardo Espina. Blame Time on the Cathedrals A vulnerable factor for everyone else To the tall tiara of air between trills toward the idea divided from the sky or would it be better to assume it as it is in the direction of what is there, guiding with ornamented candor ceded by day to invisibility without saving habitual speech when no nor yet empty, it moves to the mantis on such nomadic map where the fastest mind advances full of the same that appears to the gaze, and by making shadow, awakens. The Fog Discusses the Horse The incommensurable always wants to win The notion of the sorrel horse heals with a languid star. Part of a breed against the knoll has wanted for its branding to be lucky for a year. Long ride, babbling nomenclatures. In another era nicknames and few words, established the mane for the cowboy. Prosody given to endure, its illusion of existing, moved the manure closer to the feeble plain, that cadence of the unequal leaps. From the silence a whinny broke loose, expelled useful aftertastes through umbilical limbo as it dissolves its troubles, captive, to be born into so many of them when it would. In Byzantium it sensed a century of syntax, the pulse of spurs that came to it to stay. And today, passing cleanly through the pause the stampede asks permission of the birds, learns to untangle the wounding river, a river attracted at times to torn camalotes. He without himself, like a superlative larch grove. He and what he is the length of them a blazon to yield to the embankment. Along the coast, the quivering moon casts its light with brutality because it has time: no one circles the sweaty odyssey, the round against the ungrateful clay, the lawn less and even more loving with many, as many as they now are, they don't speak, they go free to the verb brandish seeing it stiffen the sweetness, they tremble in abundant invisibility for the taboo tree, where determination aspired to the struggle to the struggle that generally made them gigantic. At the hour of the halos they'll desire that which is aerial, desire now to be the orioles' air in the carob tree. They could make a gesture, change locations which would be a thought or insisting stubbornly like a mind between the mount and master. But it's the world for which they've come: to be in the plains would be their mode of not speaking, of finding the mare at the dip of some bay, thus the truth of the stone was hearing its drama, to cross through the storm though it bring it all while behind the clover the symbolic display case returned to make objections in the open air, it had the wind for one or both, after the native donkey was and roamed all summer One yet but after more the evening would make legion with a better image than Lope responding with rain though the rain may be light. The fly fog, it doesn't speak and the yellow home of the lemon trees that look after it so that even the immovable sea starts to lose its strands, the melted mane. Here, or maybe, it depends on the words. Here to fulfill the vision that saw it drawn, its from desire the yoked veneration. The best of Magellan A strait poem Similar to what he would know to be the sun's untimely appearance, the chronicles gave an account of finding another plot inside the sirens that were not similar, to what? A universe comes there to hear, having destiny as its inhabitant of an extraordinary time. With the halo of having known, in vein that he could clearly see the wind dancing La Bamba in a vibrant voice like a waltz or a balsam to pass the beautiful hours. Left to their own devices, they'd be beauties to better the view so that between the tide and the aroma between the high tide and the energy from the perfumes, evey month. That man given to living at dawn on the breeze in the clouds came to artciulate, with such spirit the way to watch King Momo in more than one manner. Beauties, bang, what a schmuck to give in to jealousy to the flower even if it didn't exist. Which is how he took off, frightened, in his boat. Over the sea he breathed as he rushed towards the pain of all ignorance: in the half-masked cipher he wanted to make sense of another shore. Landscapes of absent skies landscapes barely beginning with the stilts of the snark. A height for the treasures, as a strange southern wind yearned for the bath invited for the good of immobility by halves each time less and awakened by an equal part. Under certain laws of brilliance the yesterday making itself beckon, the era stained with sand. The aura similar to money. The sun attaches itself to its plan. There's no shortage of blue, the sky blue of the South changes to become a scepter through which he saw another, and so on, until the air was invented. After the days gated into their chimera by the cash steering to the dawn the inconsistency of the eye living beneath, the rain would come, the bayamo finding ways to hum in order to say that I saw, I went. The world entered summer as reality was taking place. Scenes of being to be close, days for each one to remain: they saved scraps to the good, the light on the perpendicular hair. Such is the divided idea, life: it ran level without regret, it was suddenly a thought, and that scream, whoa, that scream! Something had been discovered, some thing or place it's all the same. And, of course nothing should have been said to Friday's rain. The hours went, they did not come, also the wind, the vision of silence in something recent. As for time, he asks, what does one do to end its existence? The moon does not explain it, the cormorant clan would add the adult ostrich tossing dice. On its wings, the wave writes opening the length of the sky. Syntax would be the arid sea, the ore so that no one orates native above the afterworld but here—where they were—the truth had the urge to come on a bike to the ardent atmosphere, one like that but at a lower price. It was seen out in the world that time, labyrinth of time detained in words like beef jerky, entrails, simple slippers how it shivers here and there, creature, capybara, baby penis, plus peep, pipe, terms put so much on trial they're raised in secret. Tired, he goes to get them. Oh the unusual thing in the universe off the observer's port: having gone so far, that as he looked behind he saw the horizon a day later. Read the original in Spanish Read bios. One week left to join the team—send in your application today!

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