Will you not change the black dress you wear when you come to me? Why do you
insist that I place a piece of night in every word of you? How and where did you
acquire this droning power that penetrates space when you are only a few letters on
a piece of paper?
It’s not old age, but childhood that fills your face with wrinkles.
Look at how the day rests its head on the shoulder of the sun, and how in your
company I
fall asleep fatigued between the thighs of night.
The cart has arrived, the one that brings the letters of the unknown to you.
Tell the wind nothing will bar you from slipping under my clothes. But do ask the
wind, “What kind of work do you do, and who do you work for?”
Happiness and sadness are two drops of dew on your forehead, and life is an
orchard
where the seasons stroll.
I have never seen a war between two lights like the one that erupted between you
and the
navel of a woman I loved in childhood.