Not the passion,
nor the heresy,
nor the wedding ring incised into the flesh, deep down,
nor the agglomeration between the crown and temples
can remove the moment`s joy
to share, at birth, the blood
with my daughters.
The church within has fallen down.
Only a divinity can rise me
from the body`s shadow under the eyes
of the ingenious juggler who juggles
from one side to another the lie with a face
of a princess,
love which tastes of ashes,
words colder than a lizard`s tail.
I want to sponge out my memory, God,
but somebody keeps stealing the fine sponge from me.
I breathe all the way this religion.
My own life is hanging
on the humiliation`s lucidity.
leprous sleep and memory as a she-wolf
waiting to give birth...
Serenity will fly to other evenings.
From unimaginable angles,
inconceivable springs will quench the thirst of dust
that I shall be.
When he will come,
he’ll find the shadow of the bride I was,
he’ll find the trap in which I mixed
the lives of others with the lives of ours.