If you should ask me where I've been all this time
I have to say "Things happen."
I have to dwell on stones darkening the earth,
on the river ruined in its own duration:
I know nothing save things the birds have lost,
the sea I left behind, or my sister crying.
Why this abundance of places? Why does day lock
with day? Why the dark night swilling round
in our mouths? And why the dead?
I don't know how others love or how people loved in the past. I live, watching you, loving you. Being in love is my nature.
I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty.
You are like nobody since I love you.
Love is a clash of lightnings.
I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicket of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride.
Love is so short and forgetting is so long.