A great bold and Borgesian detail.
The back that supports the hardness,
boredom, injustice, firmness,
caresses recreated by your hand.

The warm tenderness in this plane
salt in the desert of harshness.
The night that seduces... the wealth of it,
the day with its flame and the profane.

Honey on the street and in the mouth.
The sun on those lips, next to the moon,
The pain is intimate, and its voice is one.

Define in this haze what you touch:
a lunar trace, a fasting wolf.
Fleeting, somewhat imprecise, is fortune.