To Patrick Süskind, writer of The Perfume,
He leans over her
Admiring the fire of her rebellious hair
Asleep, sweet child
Her body, temple of the most exquisite perfume
Getting drunk on her delight
He tries to **** this about to live madness
Rising up, oh cruel
He plans to lethally hurt her!
Another desire, inside, gushes
For he doesn’t want her to suffer
His lips burning of her, madness!
He’d rather be lenient…
She rolls over, for her he fell
He drops his hammer and her grave
He leans in closer, lover
Her eyes open, he looks at her, charmed
Mouth tight shut, lost inside him
She knows he’s the thief of the night
Three feet away from her eyes
He has to possess her for his tragic project
Lull settles in, she says:
“You’ve come to take my life’’
He smiles, she grabs his hand
And brings him to her red-hued lips
“Laura, I am Jean Baptiste
Senses will be my tomb
I screamed, organic, garbage from the market…
Broken, born almost dead, scattered like schist.’’
“Jean Baptiste, come here’’
“Sweet ******, I’m only sombre ashes
My body only knows the twig
By your perfume only can my heart rise…
No love is that strange.’’
“So I’m yours, divine
Drink my wine to the hilt’’
“Angel, forgive me for what I must do’’
He throws his vest on the ground
Unveiling his skinny self
He is stark naked, she is dreamy.
He lifts the covers, dreading his own gestures
As soon as he’s laying next to her
She softly skims his chapped lips
He answers, babbling
The moon is above them, entangled.
He can’t stop his fingers
On her naked skin wanting him
For no cloth, no silk
Can’t protect her, she isn’t escaping
Her scream in his kiss he takes her
She’s a woman in a blasting fury
On some supple Asian cushions
Her blood slides, fertile, drunk Muse…
He’s already asleep on her hip
He equally adores her curves and her sip
He caresses her white gorgeous chest
Swiftly slays her and,
Lays her down waiting for the blame
Crying, but he has to leave her.
Translated on August 8, 2015