The Lives of the Others and Our Lives

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.

Total resignation,

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.