lunes, 8 de abril de 2013

Story of remoteness, 4.

Kissing for love

Little romantic spirit wandering among the rocks,
throw of dice, silver song,
honest grieving that dumps a crowd into consciousness
and overflows beneath a calyx of inadequate foam.
Little love, short smile, hand that, abandoned,
falls into untouched flesh,
but also caresses, wants, dignifies,
purifies with its ardency all that never flies
cause it doesn’t have a soul, nor affection.
Kissing like that, amongst embers, as if travelling trough yourself
assuming in the solitude of two lovers alone
that time it’s not time but a breeze that lasts forever.

Kissing for love, what a sweet foolishness,
what a gentle sweet mistake, blameless,
without malice,
without that spare, sinuous resentment of the premeditated,
morbid light that suavely focuses
embedded in a sea of light.

I don’t love anymore – who does?
I slowly kiss when the night become flesh
as I claim the woman’s love that, when she loves,
becomes body, so she laughs with blood and softness and sweetness
and only then she starts to fall into the sea we all come from,
the birds too…
and so the shadows.
I do not love anymore, why should I, I don’t know anything,
my understanding of love remains so far away, beyond the cold,
and coldly I present to myself this Spring that smoothly awakens.
Love is for the madmen.
I just want to kiss your lips
and dance around them. 

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