THE LOVERS OF TLATELOLCO . They barely emerge from the shadow Their mumurs raise gentle signs at the foot of the foundation. Their white tennis shoes gleam. . Far from those stones, returned to one another, they forget in their lips the scream of the massacres, chests opened by dint of obsidian or bayonet-- . Indifferent to the shadow that covers them, the young lovers murmur or stay silent, while the night grows over the ruins, bolts down the plinths of the temples, the inscriptions. . Over there the urn with two skeletons embracing in their dusty deathbed, beneath the crystal where the flowers of an offering are drying.