No longer do I question heaven, the mourning yard
still closes its door
before me. No haste, the life banquet is served, and I, dismissing the
sacrifice tradition, on Sundays I sing my longing for you, far more than
the sermon in Mass.
Your absence at the table ... Irony! Loving you so much, I die from thirst
in front of your fountain. My path is entwined by roads in my imagination.
You, always you, fill up my remembrance with notes.
Poetry has
fallen asleep.
The body, like a wound, painted by noon light,
The heart has departed from my life.
We just did not know how to hold the infinite hankering
with songs from the moon.
Unable to sleep in the same bed, in different pillows, inasmuch as you,
my sea town, turned into baggage, willing to fulfill a journey when
fall came.
Don't think this letter is written amidst slumber. It is written by
hands that draw boundaries of love aloof. Albeit you are not here, your
distant love still lingers in my mind.
I love you
as the acoustic guitar,
Amidst nostalgia and hindrance,
I love you as the peasant who knows about his land
And gets to understand life.
No sufferings, no tears, desire lives in spreading
beams over tattoos in my skin.
Even in the mountains I hear your song, I know your heartbeat dwells
in the crest, in innocence, in the village, and in a hidden kiss at
dusk.
This letter is only to touch a moment, like a miracle in grammar, with
your name written in fire in all my fantasies.
 Someday
you will read about this love, emerging every night towards the light
of your eyes, searching for your mouth in the sky that belongs to us,
as night belongs to day.
Awareness will come to you as my prayers for you burst in my veins each
dawn, and you will learn how universe cracked one night, when we touched
the sky, while treading our paths we met.
Then you will recognize that very moment when a loving act becomes a
sin...
Fugacious rhetoric
of my arcanum,
languid senses goldening in saliva.
I am a rictus of madness, geometric nudity causes me no trouble inasmuch
as I conceive your blood conversion to the horizon; and the mirror,
now broken, is not oblivious to your existence.
Magnolias and nards are on the verge of rebirth, and I along with them,
cherish and fondle with tenderness ... your life kept aloof.
 I
bid you farewell at dawn every single day, standing at the door of our
room, holding senselessly your ragged shirt ... and the world follows
the lovers' sigh that, as psalms, filled with gaiety the eternity of
not being twosome, but one in interrupted interlude.
I lovingly kiss your light, the projection of your sea, your thirst
for delusion, your words, your name ... and your absence.
Love
P.S. This warm letter written by a broken pencil, along
with the others, will be driven by me to slumber in the sea; lingering
till one day... it reaches your shore.
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