You don't know what is outside, what is inside.
You cannot distinguish what words determine. The perimeter,
private property that threatens neighborhoods,
living nature coinciding in time and space, in danger.
No. Your skin is in the things that you suck as if they were candy,
always similar, amalgamated, by intuition, chameleon.
Fused, conceived in the reflection, in the brotherhood that takes root
immemorial. Where do you come from daughter, alien?
Of a death
redeemed, forgotten and remembered in a silent corner, without language?
Do you know the gear that unites shadows and lights and auroras
and mornings and twilights? Because your wise eyes are masters
they can look at me with the same sweetness as at an unknown being
that we meet on the street or like the cat,
fixed. In a trance, you and him, in the gallery of the house
under the autumn sun. Deep both
the moment he leaves, through the tunnel
that communicates time with times, an endless root
that brings together what we believed separate: kingdoms,
bodies, fields, beaches, mountains, huts, houses.
The two of us before being sometimes, and only sometimes, one.
Your hands weave the weave in a unique way
that lets no one be an outcast of history,
helpless flesh. Cheers my love, long live in that light
that in the pain of who knows what, he is forgetting.