As soon as you get used
to the lights on,
and his face adorns
my empty walls

you will cut off the hand
that undresses the oak
and the endless touch
and the sever conditions.

Will he know this?
Will he know?
Will he know?

Will he know that in the end
you didn't hunt out of hunger?
That in this eternal field
of lilies and wire
the night forgot the moon
and walked until late,
to find you chewing
muscle and fur?

Only one mark on your skin,
but on your soul, perhaps, thousands
although I wouldn't dare to say
that any of those was inflicted by me.

And if it never rains again,
When will you have the courage to choose
if you sleep without his eyes, or without me,
If you live without a scar or without roots?

And if on these streets
where you dragged me,
where so many winters
for springs you traded

I should have the misfortune
to stumble upon him,
I would apologize
just by seeing him

Would he know this?
Would he know?
Would he know?

Would he know that you are just
a burning bush?
And I am a dark water spring
wanting to caress you?
That, maybe, I did him a favor,
that, modesty aside,
it takes more water
than what he has to turn you off?

And the glass of his eyes
would be broken in suspense
and then, he would want to see
(or not)

And he would recognize the cancer
that he has carried on his bones,
and then, he would want to believe
(or not)

That, out of the seed he spat
I did grow a watermelon.
Then I would know
(or not)

if I'm allowed to be born,
if one day, the day will come
where you will be mine
or not.

First, your face
decked
by jewels
and half lifetimes

Broken vessels
fill your dazed
neck

Your eye and lash
come from this mountain
of granite,
smoke and cancer

from the soil, you cut them
as a fragrant lemon

You let yourself fall
the dust of your feet
empties you,
measures you,
overcomes you
dust by dust
blow by blow
finely
on the snow
of Berlin.

Then, a nest,
of fork
and knife
gives birth to
snakes
and stairs

turquoise step
on which you sing
and pray.

Finally, abysses,
acids, earthquakes,
only existent
in indian dreams

cloak of thirsty
and yellow threads

You let it fall
You go away
to let yourself know
you are exiled
from every country,
from your sands,
from your nation,
from your glass
from your ashes of Paris.

Life got overturned in your curls.
Curls with which I put together the fabric.
Fabric, with which we wiped shame off of our faces.
We didn't know how to choose.
We choked when we shouldn't even drink.

By mistake.
By mistake one bites its own heart,
one forgives a betrayal,
one cries instead of laughing,
one dies in its sleep,
but you can't deceive someone like this,
by mistake.

In the clouds of your coffee,
did the loneliness that you felt
when you woke up with him, ever peeped out?
Did you wish that I was him
when you hung wet sheets from the sky?
When you dreamt of the right man
but woke up in the wrong bed?

By mistake.
By mistake one bites its own heart,
one forgives a betrayal,
one cries instead of laughing,
one dies in its sleep,
but you can't deceive someone like this,
by mistake.

If I had ever known
that your winter would strain in my nest,
I would've forbidden you to climb so high,
I would've denied you the fruit of my tree.

Of the ghosts we raised,
Of the shadows we harvested,
of those pagan rituals,
having offered you my heart
was my only mistake,
I did it by mistake.
By mistake.

I say:

I want you as a cloud is wanted
Wanting to see it drizzle,
Wanting to get wet, then, let go
I want you with a desire I never had before,
grey, as the swirls of snow
that melt in your belly.

I want you, with half of my willing
With my consciousness in the air
and my feet on a burning plain,
with my eye-lid attached to the lily,
and my soul, made into a wave of broken glass
That undoes,
and does, undoes
and does...
undoes...

I want you like the sea foam is wanted
Wanting to imprison it in my fist,
a fist where storms slip, but it catches the howling
a fist that destroys everything
but can't own anything

I want you as the hurricane wants
to stir the nest on the back of your neck
where your secrets huddle

but in this tremulous current
I'm leaving the flesh, I'm leaving the blood
Not the heart
For I see how it sets on fire what it pleases
It undoes, and does
undoes and does
undoes...

You are water
You are salt
You are river
You are sea
You are chalk
White pond on the skin
solemn oath of love

But who are we trying to fool?
Who's gonna carry the dead on the hands?
Who's gonna bear a winter all year?
Who's gonna blink during the summer?
Maybe tomorrow, it's gonna be me
So, for today,
I'm gonna have to say no.

You say:
"What about next wednesday?"

Maybe next wednesday.

I

I never saw a mountain move
by the pure grace of love,
But by desire, I saw a continent
dragged to the tip of the sun.

I saw the sea raising its current,
trying to ****** some star,
like the blood in your stream,
while someone else made love to you.

And I lost the will to live,
and the desire to die
chained to your altar.

And the hummingbird
he put on your lips,
it splattered you of freedom,
but in its hum you found a prision

for two pigeons with no course,
for the canary I left in your hand.
and it was not from love, it was of pure desire
that you opened your mouth and closed your fist.

And I lost the desire to die,
and the will to live
Chained to your altar,

As if there was no other God!
That I could worship
As if there was no other God!
To which I could kneel
As if there was no other God!

II

All these men on the pedestal,
and if each one is given a cross,
How many gods will we praise?
How many won't be dead Christs ?
How many won't be stained sheets?
How many, on Easter Sunday
will not even face God? Goodbye.

I opened my mouth and I created you a universe,
I showed you the tiger and the dove,
I planted on your chest an ivy and a rose,
I watered you of morning and sun,
and still, you preferred to go down to hell,
with the loneliness, the bone and the shadow
a snake and a red moon

For his tired eyes,
for his bitter smile,
for his brown hair,
and hands that had never touched you,
and a horseman that won't ride you,
a street on which you never cried before,
and any other meridian time.

For some other Adam
that galloped away
from a paradise he did not find in your summer,
a string of few beads
that is embedded in the ground where I bloomed,
where a tree of blood and prayer grows,
that in each fruit bears my flesh
and the seed of another God.

I have curiosity of the wrong kind,
the kind that gnaws,
the kind that enraptures,

Does his mouth suppurates anise?
Or did you really thought
he could make you happy?

You cheated on him,
not on me.
You told him that some day soon,
that you didn't love me anymore.

You cheated on him,
not on me.
He was looking for moons on your skin
While you wondered to yourself

If you want him more
than you need me.

It only took one cloud
to know the truth,
It only took one drop of rain
to give sound to the river

Does not his lion skin
make a better coat?

Does he has not eager hands?
Did not the common breath
approached you to death?

Or what was that indecency?
leaving his body
once thoroughly
you left it without secrets?

You cheated on him,
not on me.
The lips that assailed him,
the next day swore to me

That you cheated on him,
not on me.
I'm the drug in your veins,
He is an itch, he's an urgency.

Do you want him more
than you need me?

No, It don't seem
like that to me.

Maybe it's true,
Maybe it's true that you are March and April's pollen,
Maybe it's true that you are the shadow of the sun,
maybe it's true that you are a dream of god.

Maybe I am a gale,
One of those warm but gruff,
those that can mess with your hair,
but never impregnate you.

Maybe it's true,
Maybe you told me, maybe you did,
that our love, only at times
looked like it was going to live

Maybe it was born dead,
with forgotten bones,
Maybe it was only mine,
this cold fruit of sharpened longings
embodied in my chest.

So, don't speak of my love.
I ask you don't speak of my love,
Don't speak of it as if it was yours.
The thorn is yours,
the scar is mine,

the scar of all these years,
you have bitten,
you have scratched it,
don't speak of it
as if it was yours,

as if your hands had been chopped
in the wood of his coffin,
as if your mouth had gotten wet
right before you gave him bread,

as if you heart had wallowed
in the torture of his quietness,
as if your ears had bursted
in the second he stopped breathing,

so don't speak of my love,
I ask you, don't speak of my love
Don't speak of it as if it was yours,
as if it was yours...