The lover's question, speaking or silent, is a repetition of a single desire: Who am I in your eyes? The lover's listening is a repetition of a lonely yearning for the answer to come, even if vaguely. The answer is the one who holds the hand of the lover and guides him to the mirror, where his image is, and says to him: This is you, in my eyes, and what you are in my eyes is the truth. The truth is complete when it is said once, even if only temporarily, and what is said is known and there is no confusion in it.
What does a sad one who looks like me do when I count the defeats of time, it takes off the dress of its days thread by thread, like a rose of nostalgia and sits between the palms of memory, naked, with a body without details, counting how many lovers passed through fingers, like water that did not quench the thirst of the body while he is still picking up the melody of an old song, whose words have eroded, and it wears them like a coat in the winter of forgetfulness!
I walk on the edge of the world, carving my name on the water, reciting a Bible from the blank pages, writing hypothetical events, jotting down my other names that I desire, loving all the beautiful women in the world with a thousand hearts, breathing from my mind, letting my lungs go to tear gas canisters, I walk in all political demonstrations, raising my naked body as a banner, preparing the ground for my imminent death, reading all the details of emptiness, staring long into the distances. There is a distance between me and God, and I only think of the path carved like milk that gushed from the udder of cats, I call to prayer on the top of the mountains.
Give me, O woman, your name, and take all my language, I am mute, and I only want your voice, to call upon God! Writing is like an emigration, when blood turns into ink due to pain, and it explodes all the distances of the veins. I am sure that I am a prophet, who failed to draw God's attention to all this devastation. Here, the war passed like an owl, for the forest was dark, and the fragments of flesh did not help them in the morning to breathe in a grave, so they rotted in their place and sprouted green flies with human nails.
And here; I search for the meaning of life, and nothing answers me except a deep echo of death. Here, where my body is still imprisoned at the bottom of a well whose waters are bilious, and I was not Joseph until a divine coincidence saved me.
I am still a carpenter, trees are all my wealth in the world, although modern civilization digs deep into the walls of the forest, but I still believe in the power of wood to make houses, shelters, children's toys, fishing machines, and boats. The village expands to become a city, but its stomach does not digest strangers, and keeps mass graves for them outside the borders of the village.
Just give me a kiss, so that the world may equilibrate for a moment, before it falls back into chaos! Your face, the angel of God who sent it to the world, so the earth turned into an apple that I gnawed at, so God punished me with your love for eternity! I can love you, without reasons, only reasons that fail the love relationship!
The body is the only fact that does not need proof. From the instinct of our body spring all the colors of the world. The world is in its roots completely black and opaque. Only love makes the blood of the world gush out, from a small wound in a woman’s heart. This blood, which takes the form of birds, fish, and roses, migrates perfume, does not need passports.
What does a sad one who looks like me do when I count the defeats of time, it takes off the dress of its days thread by thread, like a rose of nostalgia and sits between the palms of memory, naked, with a body without details, counting how many lovers passed through fingers, like water that did not quench the thirst of the body while he is still picking up the melody of an old song, whose words have eroded, and it wears them like a coat in the winter of forgetfulness!
I walk on the edge of the world, carving my name on the water, reciting a Bible from the blank pages, writing hypothetical events, jotting down my other names that I desire, loving all the beautiful women in the world with a thousand hearts, breathing from my mind, letting my lungs go to tear gas canisters, I walk in all political demonstrations, raising my naked body as a banner, preparing the ground for my imminent death, reading all the details of emptiness, staring long into the distances. There is a distance between me and God, and I only think of the path carved like milk that gushed from the udder of cats, I call to prayer on the top of the mountains.
Give me, O woman, your name, and take all my language, I am mute, and I only want your voice, to call upon God! Writing is like an emigration, when blood turns into ink due to pain, and it explodes all the distances of the veins. I am sure that I am a prophet, who failed to draw God's attention to all this devastation. Here, the war passed like an owl, for the forest was dark, and the fragments of flesh did not help them in the morning to breathe in a grave, so they rotted in their place and sprouted green flies with human nails.
And here; I search for the meaning of life, and nothing answers me except a deep echo of death. Here, where my body is still imprisoned at the bottom of a well whose waters are bilious, and I was not Joseph until a divine coincidence saved me.
I am still a carpenter, trees are all my wealth in the world, although modern civilization digs deep into the walls of the forest, but I still believe in the power of wood to make houses, shelters, children's toys, fishing machines, and boats. The village expands to become a city, but its stomach does not digest strangers, and keeps mass graves for them outside the borders of the village.
Just give me a kiss, so that the world may equilibrate for a moment, before it falls back into chaos! Your face, the angel of God who sent it to the world, so the earth turned into an apple that I gnawed at, so God punished me with your love for eternity! I can love you, without reasons, only reasons that fail the love relationship!
The body is the only fact that does not need proof. From the instinct of our body spring all the colors of the world. The world is in its roots completely black and opaque. Only love makes the blood of the world gush out, from a small wound in a woman’s heart. This blood, which takes the form of birds, fish, and roses, migrates perfume, does not need passports.