The world weighs malicious and solemn in my roots.
I accept your hands, your joy, my delirium.
If you return, if you dream, your image in the night
     will recognize me.
My blood of magic flows toward you, beneath the
     prophecy of dawn.



When I place my brow on that melody, I recover for an instant the
lost city.

    I live without wood or fire, dreaming at your feet.

Because we find ourselves in the world, the frightening flame
covers us. From head to toe I am the great hesitation of man.
Bleak, I swallow fog and oblivion by the pitcher.



We weren't going to make incursions into the place occupied by the ray with arms of oak: its fury would clear our poor head, full of wine and vain illusions. You are the one speaking to me, sir who arranges the sparklers in a row (I repeat their echo, swallow their desire and their thorn); it is you who stains the paper on the table, while the actual hunt occurs where there are no limits, maybe in this visceral crevice at the edge of the beautiful fable and the distant luster.



We are surrounded by strangeness
with its spring that drinks us

Strange, the red grapes
we will continue chewing

the vast April moments
where your path and mine
might coincide
at the edge of thick trees
and beloved countries

crude winter’s guard
is stalking us
and we ignore the weight of our arms
if they’ll be of any use
if the air will be fresh or humid in April
or if the flowering grenadine will sustain us in distress.