It's not your fault
if the clock stops at midnight
and your moans wake up the birds
sleep on the branches
of my nude trees.
Not your fault
that I lock up my poor body into your arms,
so deep,
and breathe the hidden essence
of your chest, . .
your belly button .
and your outskirts.
It's not your fault,
nor it is mine,
nor it is anybody's
that there's no one here to stop these avalanches.
"How short is life!"
we'll think in our last bed.
That moment will arrive
so fast.
But I won't think of you:
you'll be the ashes of the shadow of a feeling.
Yet today, having chosen to leave you and your intersections
to save my machine-gunned heart --scavenger--
I only think of your infinite legs,
of your abysmal eyes,
mahogany wood burning on your back,
melting on me,
as we play chess in an ocean of green sheets.
And it's not your fault.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Siempre me han encantado tus poemas/canciones. Siguen en mi carpeta favorita. Siguen poblando mis tardes de domingo. Y aquella que compusiste para mi, a la que puse musica en secreto, resuena en mis oidos a salto de mata.
Ten thousands shadows of stars glowing in my soul tonight,
cause my personnal moon has appeared as ever does.
Oh my life, always be the light.
Para ti. Para todos tus versos futuros. Muaki!
Post a Comment