You and I, my love, let us seal the silence together, when the sea destroys its endless statues, and topples its impulsive white towers: for in the invisible fabric of the waves and the billowing sand and stones, we sustain a unique and difficult tenderness.

I want to look at your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and thirsty, I wandered the streets. Bread can't nourish me, dawn divides me, and all day long I search for the sound of your feet flowing.

I long for your slippery laughter, your plentiful hands, your pale jade nails, and I want to eat your skin like swallowing a whole almond.

I want to eat the sun shining in your lovely body, the supreme nose on your proud face, I want to eat the fleeting shadow on your eyelashes.

I wander about hungry, sniffing the sunset, searching you, searching your fiery heart, like a jaguar in the moors of Kitado.

What kind of dark light blooms between your columns?

Oh, love is a journey with water and stars, with a drowning atmosphere and a storm of flour, love is the strike of lightning and two bodies surrendered to one kind of honey.

Kiss after kiss I roam in your little infinity, your borders, your rivers, your little villages, and the fire of reproduction—how delightful it becomes—

Quietly pass through the narrow blood passage until it quickly pours out like a carnation in the night, until it seems to be real and empty. Like a light in the dark.

The light that rises from your feet to your hair, the power that envelops your delicate body, is not mother-of-pearl, not cold silver: you are made of bread, the bread of fire.

The grain is piled high in the harvest season, and the flour is fermented in your body in the season of happiness: when the flour doubles your breasts, my love is the coal waiting in the soil.

Ah, your forehead is bread, and your legs are bread. Your mouth too. Eaten by me, the bread born with the morning light, my love, you are the banner of the bakery.

Fire teaches you a lesson in blood. You recognize your own sacredness from your flour. Self-bread learns your language and aroma.

I love you, but I don't think of you like a rose, or a topaz. Or the arrows of a carnation shot from the fire. I love you like something dark, secretly, between shadow and soul.

I love you as a plant that never blooms, but which has the light of a flower in itself, and because of your love, a concrete scent, rises from the earth and lives in me.

I love you, I don't know how to love, when to love, and where to love. My love for you is straightforward, uncomplicated and not arrogant, and I love you because I don't know anything else.

And what way: where I don't exist, you don't exist, so intimate, your hand resting on my chest is my hand, so intimate, you also close your eyes when I sleep.

My ugly man, thou art a filthy chestnut, my beauty, thou art as beautiful as the wind, my ugly man, thy mouth is as big as two, my beauties, thy kiss is as fresh as a watermelon.

My ugly man, where have you hidden your breasts? I would prefer to see two moons across your breast, two great towers of pride.

My ugly man, there is nothing like your toenails in the sea, my beauty, I have made a catalogue of your body, flower by flower, star by star, wave by wave, dear:

My ugly man, I love you, I love your golden waist, my beauty, I love you, I love the wrinkles on your forehead, I love you, I love you, I love your clarity, and I love your darkness.

My love, I have loved you and not seen you, I have not remembered you, I do not recognize your gaze, I do not know you, a cornflower born in the wrong place, exposed to the sun at noon: I love only the taste of wheat.

Maybe I've seen you, and imagine you raising your glass, in Ingres, reflecting the moonlight on a summer night, or maybe you're the waist of the guitar I play with in the shadows, the guitar that sounds like the raging sea?

I love you but I don't know it, I search for your memories. I broke into the house with a flashlight and stole your picture, but I knew what you looked like. Suddenly,

You are by my side, I have touched you, my life, stop: you stand before my eyes, ruling like a queen. Like a campfire in the forest, the fire is your territory.

Before I loved you, O love, I had nothing: I wandered in the streets, in the midst of things: everything was inconsequential, there was no name: the world was made of waiting air.

I was familiar with the dusty rooms, the tunnels where the moon lived, the harsh hangars of the dismissals, the stubborn doubts in the sand.

All is empty, dead, dumb, depraved, abandoned, rotten: everything strange beyond imagination, everything is someone else's, and nothing belongs to anyone, until your beauty and poverty bring the abundant gifts of autumn.

Neither the hue of the dreaded dunes of Iquique, nor the estuary of the Dusper River in Guatemala, can change the contours of your wheat fields, your plump grape-like body, and your guitar-like mouth.

O my dear, since the silence of all things, from the hilly lands dominated by tangled vines to the desolate silver-gray savannahs, every beauty of the land is a replica of yours.

But neither the shy hands of the mines, nor the snow of Tibet, nor the stones of Poland, can change your abundance, your wandering grain:

It's as if the clay or wheat, the guitar or the bunches of fruit of the Orchid cling to their territory on you, carrying out the commands of the savage moon.

The naked you are as simple as your hands, smooth, simple, small, transparent, round, the lines of the moon, the path of the apple, and the naked you are as slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked you are as blue as the Cuban night, with vines and constellations in your hair. Naked, you are vast and yellow, like a golden church lingering in the summer day.

Naked you are as small as your fingernails, subtle arcs, the color of roses, until the day, birth, you are hidden underground, as if sinking into a long tunnel of clothes and chores: your clear light fades, you put on your clothes, you fall into the leaves, and you become your bare hands again.

You come from the poor South, from a poor home, from a harsh region known for its cold and earthquakes, learning to live among the moat and the clay, when the worshipped gods themselves fall to death.

Thou art a pony made of black clay, swarthy, asphalt kiss, ah dear, thou art clay poppy, twilight doves galloping along the road, the tears of our poor childhood.

Baby, you always have a poor heart, a pair of poor feet accustomed to stones, and your mouth often does not know what bread or candy is.

Thou art from the poor south where my soul has nourished: in her heaven, thy mother and my mother are still washing together. That's why I chose you as my partner.

The morning house, a mixture of blankets and feathers, was disoriented at the beginning of the day, floating like a poor boat between the level of order and sleep.

Objects only want to drag the remains forward, aimless following, cold relics, documents hiding their shrunken vowels, and the wine in the bottle prefers to continue yesterday.

Thou thou thou of order, thou thou twinkle like a bee reaching into the depths of darkness, thou hast conquered the light with thy white energy.

You have constructed a new clarity: the objects gladly surrender to the wind of life, and the order of order allows the bread and the dove to take their place.

Beloved, we are about to go home, to the home where the vines are crawling with trellises: the nude summer with the steps of honeysuckle will reach your bedroom before you arrive.

Our nomadic kisses the end of the world: Armenia, the thick honey dug up, Ceylon, the green doves, and the Yangtze River, with its time-honored patience separating day from night.

Now, our beloved ones, across the surging ocean, we return, like two blind birds flying back to the wall, flying back to the nest in the distant spring.

Because love cannot fly without sleep: our lives return to the walls, to the reefs of the sea, to our kisses. (To be continued......)