I am the same
the one who prays at night
the custodian of all gods
the one who does not give up
the same one he always finds
an impossible asleep on the asphalt
he who knows about wrong men
waiting for a skin that touches them
I am a strange symbiosis in each dawn
Night and day
the one who does not deny his daily dedication
I am a man who makes mistakes
and the fault is not of the others.
From my ribs a woman with black eyes is born.
Black lead and incense.
They are jet-black crows that demolish my celestial.
A curved woman with the skin of the abyss and short words
she springs to the surface of my drops in cloudy clusters.
She emerges with her insolent spatula body
to boycott the colors of my canvas.
She grows, overflows, breaks her roots and breathes out of the earth.
That woman doesn't know how to undress me or make me shut up.
Or dance in a swamp scorched by crickets.
Nor interpret my hoarse appetite.
Nor hate the ardent suicide of butterflies.
She does not know.
She falls silent and grows like a deluge of dinosaurs
and she makes a cave in my pupils.
Impossible to stop her.
She brings with her dragging wagonloads of other Mercury women.
They will eat me in the end.
On this unknown land.
No velvet prayers to hide me.
Without temples to save me from her black gaze,
wound,
dying behind her mask.