The sidewalk, the asphalt,
The bushes, the lights
The rain, the lights, the crossroad, the sigh
The puddle, the shadow, the laughter,
A flower,
A flower without a pot.
Without the minutes, the wait.
Without minutes, the hour.
The hand without a watch.
The hand away from your breast in lust
The empty hand
Opened and empty,
Runs on sidewalks,
Alas!
Rough a night
And a friend not in luck,
Laid my table tonight.
The moon is my pillow
And you, girl, my grave have been in time.
You all invite me in a dance
Where music is amiss,
With slow, slow turns,
With me staring at my birthplace
Or at my withdrawn masturbation,
Blind,
As a whelp twisted within the mantle
Of silence,
Within the mantle of the mute dream,
Within the mantle of your deafening
Beauty.
No matter what I drink,
All is so aged,
Even the effects
And the warped moon over the attic.
My unlucky friend talks cocaine to me.
I approve him, as if a suffering soldier,
Whom he never suffered yet.
I can’t do more than this;
If not to offer my own nose,
Spartan as Pinocchio,
Frail as the cow moo
Or that of a donkey, I can’t quite remember…
The table remains untouched
And the luckless friend the night’s corner
Tows over it,
As one does with a mantle of yore.
You ask me to shut off the moon.
I hang my screams in the sky
And now voiceless
Warm myself at your sorrowful grave,
Wrapped with night and earth,
Lulled in the dream of a
Day pregnant by my longing
For you.
The suspect, the suspect!
How? What? When?
The suspect, the suspect!
Now? Before? Then?
The suspect, the suspect!
In my eyes of you.
The suspect, the suspect!
A piece of me is due.
The suspect, the suspect!
Run and halt the same.
The suspect, the suspect!
With two dreams to blame.
The suspect, the suspect!
Electoral rights.
The suspect, the suspect!
Chew and fight in bites.
The suspect, the suspect!
Finally toss a dream.
The suspect, the suspect!
Run, bury the scream.
The suspect, the suspect!
Now but loosing strength.
The suspect,
ah, you suspect!
A dream without its length.