I’m back
Harvest is over
The yellow ears of morning
Stand against the door
Irritating problems
Of patina
No more picking olives
On the hills of adultery
No more passive pleasures
I can’t fight narcosis
Asleep like mud in enclosed gardens
My sex gleams with a great bitter thirst
The exquisite yawn of death
Why do I know sadness without understanding it
Without the medlar pit swollen with rustic blood
To be held like a widow’s last
Between my fingers drenched in light
How to satisfy my craze for freshness
No passion
No old punishment
That does not wear vice’s uniform
I fall to the ground with great sealike movements
And swirls of cobblestones with the sound
Of drums
I fall and I rise and the surface of the city
Cannot be far from misery and time
I came back too soon
O son of my maternal flame
Hello