Sparks sparkle from my hands
that illuminate the memory
of a dark city
of streets and passages,
of ochaves and walls

My eyes still see the candles
of the end of the earth,
a horse circling,
the brightness of some eyes
they look at me and they wrap me

And soft and firm hands,
and roaming the sidewalks,
lips and more lips
and a scent of surprises
that is stubborn here,
and I adore it.

The moon shines or shines
Or does it only reflect the dreams you keep?

And the moon goes at night
sustained by the blood of her sisters,
watering an aroma of fertile bellies,
of intertwined skin, of musk.

It caresses us, it watches us,
he looks at us, he lulls us,
He always forgives us forgetfulness,
at night cloudy,
of eclipses,
of stars.

Soft moon almost lightens,
a caress in the sky,
that reminds us,
the smoothness of a neck,
the touch in the hair,
the face,
the bodies all.

The moon is my Sister.