Dear poet and artist of perfect forms:
your glance shakes tunnels of fire in my soul,
burning me
but you know that your smile redeems me,
that your words and your voice
are ropes and bridges of which I hold me strongly.
And every day when the light wets you
I contemplate a beautiful Pleiades son
total like an eclipse
your tenuous hair like flame almost float in the air...
See your eyes closed
and your lips that light sculpts,
descending by your vigorous chin
like the sun on surface of a planet...
Watch to the sky, that cloudburst,
as if you waited for something, once in a while.
Your strong and white hands that grasp a telescope,
take books, put them on the table;
they are nomadic doves
in that house of great terraces
where your yearnings travels
in a bubble that cleaves the space
portraying each corner.
It is like the eye of your conscience
where I would like to be reflected in perpetual freedom...
Now I see you burning in thoughts
in to the uncontrollable splendor of the enclosure,
displacing you
from a side to other side, like solitary quasar.
You walk with that body
So worthy like a monolith or a cathedral...
fascinated I see you
with that suffering that more than deformer,
it has sculpted you,
sheltered of solitude,
covered by the penumbra;
there are in your soul frightful scars
that attract more me towards you.
And whenever the time extends to its tunnel
moving away the perspective of the things...
You emerge to the light
Because I cling to the invisible loops
of your words and your voice,
I caress the red transparency of the diamond
of your most intimate feelings...
But even when
you will take me in your arms
to cover your lips with sweetness,
and in a single impulse to make you forget
the flavor of bitter things?.
I would like to upholster your heart of roses,
to be a window opened to your solitude
and little by little to feel in your warm hands,
manifold ways
that lead to the interminable mystery...
Where a strange happiness waits
like a buttress
ignited in the middle of the desert...
When barely the early morning
unfolds its burning wings of clouds
between stars about leaving. .
