I reduce myself to ashes of your essence,
beautifying those wild streams from yesterday,
trails from the epicenter of an eternal fury.
Only if the needle stopped, only if the Universe died for you to live.

Covered with the  bittersweet cloak of what is bearable,
Flooded with foam from an endless rage of loneliness.

Delicate hypocrisy, fooling us intermittently
never giving up on the anodyne torment.
In a sovereign sway,
who rules our lives with mild-mannered dourness,
we sneak scaling amongst scarlet scales,
flying towards the impossible,
dreaming of a gaze from memoryless constellations,
crystal metamorphosis bursting inside you.

Lacking apparent moulding,
trusting your smile,
rushing into a leap of faith,
and laughing, absorbed by dazzling darkness,
we look at each other blindly
                   seizing the infinite.