It will not be the rain that wets our bones,
we will not have a dog to call us
in the middle of a street with austere whistles,
there will not be a single perfume contest
that it is not thrown into the street
like the infamous bottle of a drunk
to break our heads and we know with certainty
that there will be no sun or moon or goldfinch
that tolerates with your body
the blood rushing to the lip
the red and sweet horse of kisses, we will not be there, love of my earthly years,
willing to forget things,
door handles scalpels mirrors useful
your image that I always loved and of my
silences that you never forgive
but you already know that for me the language
It's a waste of time, when I leave,
because it's time to start thinking about it,
I don't want to see you behind the light of day
cutting out a flower or an almanac
or a poem to turn on my grace.
For mercy, don't go to show off a candle
because I have been a poet and not a saint!
Let go of my hands that will feel a planet
like we test the sand before going to bed.
The rain will not remove its blue bodice for us, life is an exaggeration.
We made love a white panther,
angry, cunning, always sweet and always hungry and always biting us with
greed the smoky heart.
Come back, love, to love. It's raining again.
May my name and my weight and my fatigue
They are free from your hours and your hands.
Someone we don't know is waiting for you
and now I can pack my bones in peace.
Be attentive, always attentive,
your heart that I love.