It's not the walls of the desolate room compacting what it seems too big for me
as an instant to which I was not intended
like that coven that saw me born
They are those paths that my curse draws
those who run away the absence in my touch
in the distant gaze that flees uselessly from my own being to see his mirror in you
The trails are red evenings where boredom has decided to stay
And your silence rushes against the wind, against its mystery.
You, that you are grateful when you are deep, constant
my flesh you exhibit it with pride
just to make my blood your oasis
to remind me that I'm getting rid of you
and I, who imperiously contain that stratagem looking at nothing
alienated to you in the same way
my tears run to the sound of the whisper of palm trees that whistle your name
Because without realizing it, I have given up and I have clung to you
suddenly, you are everything when the hour of futility grows
when virtue does not break your silhouette
to become a shadow, to become a retardation of my desires.
Your being seems to me like a world
but you are withered flower in the overwhelming night
that bathed in the dual dew of misery and lust
I welcome in my chest to appease my suffocation
so that your silver thorns
penetrate my insides and wreak havoc
dancing prophetic in the dark and damp galleries of my being
Because I am dedicated to you since I was born
you, who have been my first mother, my first rival
for you I forget that I am a man
that I am more in the moment of a consummation
that in the dream of the future
I am your slave, why deny it?
if that makes life weigh me even more.
Trying not to return to you is death and temptation
an absurd revolution that only satisfies you by half
is the only clear opposition to which you take me
the end of the dream.
