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And I watch them, distant, my words. More than mine, they are yours.
You were the gray beret and the heart in calm.
the autumn: gray beret, voice of bird and heart of home to where my profound longings migrated and my happy kisses fell like embers.
I am the desperado, the word without echoes, he who lost it all, and he who had it all.
The water walks barefoot along the soaking streets. From that distant tree they moan, as if sick, the leaves.
I have gone marking with crosses of fire the white atlas of your body. My mouth was a spider that would cross to abscond. In you, behind you, timid, thirsting.
Oh to be able to celebrate you with all the words of happiness. To sing, to burn, to fly, like a belfry in the hands of a madman.
The rain undresses herself.
I will bring you from the mountains happy flowers, bellflowers, dark hazels, and wild baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees.
I think, I walk a long path, my life before you.
On nights like this I held her in my arms. Kissed her, so many times, beneath the infinite sky.
To hear the night, immense—more immense without her.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms, my soul is not content with having lost her.
It was the thirst and the hunger, and you were the fruit. It was the ache and the ruin, and you were the miracle.
