Ah, love is a voyage with water and a star, in drowning air and squalls of precipitate bran; love is a war of lights in the lightning flashes, two bodies blasted in a single burst of honey.
We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, ‘The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.’ The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
There’s a country spread out in the sky, a credulous carpet of rainbows and crepuscular plants: I move toward it just a bit haggardly, trampling a gravedigger’s rubble still moist from the spade to dream in a bedlam of vegetables.
Then love knew it was called love. And when I lifted my eyes to your name, suddenly your heart showed me my way.
So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.
Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it’s only because in my dreams I’m a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.
Oh each successive night that comes has something in it of an abandoned ember that is slowly burning out, and it falls swathed in ruins, surrounded by funereal objects.