My sweetheart, after celery and trough, little leopard of yarn and onions, I love to see your mini empire sparkles: your weapons are wax, wine, oil,

Garlic, the soil that opens for your hands, the blue substance that ignites in your hands, the ability to turn dreams into salads, the snake curled up in a garden pipe.

You, with the scented scythe, you, with the soap bubbles that call the shots, you, climb the ladders and stairs of my madness. You are in charge of the quality of my words, and you find in the sand of your notebook the lost syllables that are searching for your lips.

At noon your house sounds like a train: bees buzz, pots sing, waterfalls catalogue the drizzle, and your laughter weaves the trills of the palm trees.

The blue light on the wall conversed with the rocks, and it came whistling like a shepherd delivering a telegram, and between two fig trees, in a green voice, Homer crept up the hill in his sandals.

Only here can the city be silent and carefree, there is no eternity, there is no sonata, no lips, or car horns, only the dialogue between the waterfall and the lion,

And you—going up and down the stairs, singing, running, bending, planting, sewing, cooking, beating, writing, going home, or you're gone—and I know winter has come.

The silence was verdant, the light was damp, June trembled like a butterfly, and O Mathilde, thou art in the Southern Territory, coming from the sea and the rocks, through the noonday.

Thou hast brought a boat full of iron-containing flowers, seaweed that had been tormented and abandoned by the south wind, and thy white-skinned, cracked by the corrosive salt of thy hand, had received the grain of sand.

I love your pure gifts. Your skin is like a stone, your fingers are a gift of sunshine, your nails, your mouth is full of joy.

But, for the sake of the room next to my abyss, please give me a system of distressing silence, forgotten in the pavilion of the sea in the sand.

I look for your shadow in the midst of all things, in the river of women who are rushing and undulating, in the braids, in the shy eyes that hang down, and the light steps that glide through the foam.

It suddenly occurred to me that I could make out your fingernails—oblong. Dexterous. Cherry's nieces, and your hair passing by me, I think I see the image of your campfire burning in the water.

I seek and seek, but no one can have your rhythm, your light. The black clay you brought back from the woods, no one has your petite ears.

You are complete and concise. Everything about you is self-contained. I drift with you like this, in love with a wide Mississippi River that flows into the ocean of women.

Don't go far, not even for a day. Because, because I don't know what to say, the day is a long day, and I will always wait for you, as if I were guarding an empty station, sleeping soundly when the train stops somewhere else.

Don't leave me, not even for an hour, for every bit of pain in my heart will come to mind, and the smoke of wandering in search of belonging will drift into my body and strangle my confused heart.

Oh, may thy silhouette never fade into the sands, oh, may thy eyelids never flared into the void, and never leave me for a minute, dearest, for in that moment thou hast gone so far that I will wander the world in a daze, and ask: Will you come back, will you leave me here dying?

I want to look back at you among the branches. Gradually, you become fruit, rising from your roots without difficulty, singing the syllables of your sap.

Here you will first become a fragrant flower, transformed into a statue of a kiss, until the sun and the earth, blood and the sky, grant you joy and sweetness.

I will make out your hair among the branches, your image ripening among the leaves, the image that brings the petals closer to my thirst, and my mouth will be filled with your taste, the kiss that rises from the earth and carries you, the blood, the blood of the lover's fruit.

Two happy lovers form a bread, a drop of moonlight in the grass, and when they walk, they leave two shadows flowing together, and when they wake up, let a sun sit empty in their beds.

Of all the truth, they have chosen the time: they have held it tightly, not with ropes, but with fragrance, and they have not torn peace or broken words. Their happiness is a transparent tower.

The air and the wine accompany the lovers, and the night delights them with joyful petals, and they have the right to all the carnations.

Two happy lovers, endless, without death, they are born, they die, the years of life repeat themselves many times, they live and breathe like nature.

Kodak Pos says your laughter falls like a falcon flying down from a stone tower. Indeed, thou hast cut through the branches and leaves of the world with a bolt of light, O daughter of the sky.

It fell, and thundered: the tongue of dew, the stream of diamonds, the light and its bees leaping. And where the Silent Hue dwelt, the grenades of the sun and stars exploded, and the sky fell, and with its shadowy night, bells and carnations shone in the light of the full moon, and the horses of the saddlemakers galloped wildly. Because you are so petite, let it fall, let the meteors of your laughter fly, and give electricity to the names of all things in nature.

Your laughter belongs to a tree that has been struck by lightning, and the silver thunderbolt falls from the sky, tears the top, and cuts the tree in two with a sword.

The laughter I love like yours is born only in the leaves and snow of the highlands, the laughter of the wind released at that height, the habits of the cedars, the people I love the most.

My mountain woman, my clear Zhilan Volcano, slash the shadows with those knives in your laughter, and slash the honey of the night, the morning, and the noon...

The birds among the leaves will leap through the air, as your laughter pierces through the Tree of Life like a luxurious light.

Here are the breads, the wine, the dining table, the dwellings: men's, women's, and the necessaries of life: here the whirlwind of peace flows, and the flame of the republic burns this light.

Praise your hands, the swift cooking of songs and the whiteness of the kitchen, praise the integrity of your galloping feet, oh hooray, the ballerina dancing with a broom.

The rough rivers that threaten the water, the pavilions of the foam of pain, the burning beehives and reefs: now they are all resting, your blood in my blood, this midnight starry and blue riverbed, this endless simple tenderness.

With an absolute party, with the glorious reason and bright demons of the upright noon, we have finally arrived here, lonely, but not lonely, far from the wild words of the savage city.

Just as the pure lines depict the dove, just as the fire bestows its nutrients on Ning Jing, you and I create this heavenly ending. Reason and love live naked in this house.

The frenzied dream, the river of bitter inevitability, the decisions that last longer than the dreams of the iron hammer flow into the double cup of the lovers, until the pairs are balanced on the scales: reason and love are like a pair of wings. The essence of transparency is like this.

In the iron of literature, I wandered around like a sailor in a foreign land, unfamiliar with the street corners, just singing, because I sing, because why not?

From the stormy archipelago I brought my windy accordion, the crazy rain waves, the usual soothing of nature...

So when the sharp teeth of literature suddenly bite my honest heels, I walk without hesitation, singing with the wind, to the rainy shipyards of my childhood, to the cool forests of the vaguely defined South, to the place where my heart is filled with your scent.

Those who tried to harm me hurt you, and the secret poison that should have been imposed on me passed through my work like a net to leave rust marks and insomnia on you.

My love, I don't want the hatred that hurts me to overshadow the moonlight that blooms on your forehead. I don't want a distant, forgotten grievance to drop its useless crown of swords into your dreams.

Vicious footsteps followed me, I laughed, horrible grimaces simulated my face, I sang, cursed me with jealousy and gnashing my teeth.

And that's, my love, the shadow that life has given me: an empty set of clothes, limping after me, like a scarecrow with a bloody smile.

My life is dyed purple with such abundance of love, and I turn in a panic like a blindfolded bird until I reach your window, my friend: you hear the murmur of a broken heart. (To be continued......)