The absurdity of distances

I used to be beautiful
– it still happens, now and then –
– and I surely do like your eyes,
but there’s a difference between looking at beauty
and this bosom love
that comes into me from far away
like a nut kernel
and breaks the pain in my shell.
I am a warrior, maybe
a rebel out of curiosity
without so much noise;
I fight by silently laughing,
to myself,
of the absurdity of distances
of the colors of the paradise I’m still looking for
between your wrinkles and your young thoughts,
and I write as I don’t know what to say,
I hide life within a folded sheet,
You understand more quickly
by walking on the wrong paths
it costs a laceration in your flesh
in your soul, perhaps,
but still it’s better than taking the right way
to follow it all along
without even thinking twice;
it still is better than opening sad umbrellas
to shelter from the sun and the rain
better than changing over your wardrobe
every time a season ends.
‘Cause you see, my season
has always just begun
and I don’t turn my eyes away to shirk the pain
Poetry is not to take the memory from my body,
but so that your presence will be sweeter,
like a gentle caress, the shadow of a promise:
the past will come,
when we re-live every day
the charm of the first time we never had
and you’ll be able to sleep in my hug.
With you I’d come beyond the stars
and wouldn’t even be afraid to fall down
after all, as you said, up or down
it’s hard to say in hyperspace
I’d come on the roller coaster, to a country at war
or riding a bike on the asphalt
of the roads of San Francisco
and you’ll teach me to love you as one should
with eyes and mouth and legs and night and day
with that love that doesn’t remain on the threshold
but enters your room, down to the very end,
and sees you.


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