I've been marking with crosses of fire
the white atlas of your body.
My mouth was a spider crossing to hide.
In you, behind you, scared, thirsty.
The stories told on the shore of dusk,
sad and sweet doll, I told them, to make you happy.
A swan, a tree, something cheerful and distant.
Autumn, the time of grapes, the time of ripe fruits.
I, who lived in a port where I loved you.
The loneliness crossed by dreams and silence.
Fenced between the sea and the sadness.
Quiet, delirious, between two motionless gondoliers.
Between lips and voice, something is dying.
Something with bird wings, something anguish and oblivion.
Just as nets do not hold water, only fish.
My doll, there are barely any trembling drops left.
However, someone sings among these ephemeral words.
Someone sings, something rises to my greedy mouth.
I will be able to celebrate you with all the words of joy that
Sing, burn, run, like a belfry in the hands of a madman.
My sad tenderness, what are you doing all of a sudden?
Now, that I have reached the boldest and coldest peak
my heart closes like a night flower.