and not your face already worries me.
The art of love is exactly
to be a poet.
To think of you, I just
the very love I feel for you:
are the idea, serene and pure,
nourished puzzle instinct.
The place of your presence
is a desert, between varieties:
but in this desert is thinking
the look of any homesickness.
My sad dreams travel directions
and, in its deep universe,
you, without form or name, there is
silent, obscure, scattered.
Your body and your face and your name,
your heart, your life,
everything - and avoids consuming space:
and I only know of your absence.
I only know what I see.
And in the pit of my dream,
unrelated to any other request,
decompose and recompose myself.
Poet, in 'Journey'
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário