At night, with the light off,
she looked through the panes of glass,
between the familiar gaps in the shutters.
Her clothes fell on the chair,
first large, then smaller,
until they reached the ochre colour of her body.
Walking or sitting, her movements had
the useless innocence of someone who believes themselves unobserved
and the unforeseen tenderness of tiredness.
Of whom I thus secretly desired,
I never knew her name
and the breaking of his laughter is still the emptiness.
(extracted from Memoria de la carne, by Juan Luis Panero)
