The Fountain
Conga, the rhythm of the first tree,
with favorite leaves under the rain,
danced with the moon, naked,
inviting me to its orgy of roots.
Black night, filled with wheat,
balancing with the fire,
stealing each step, to the pheasant’s ear,
and the faun, behind with his bassoon.
Bedouin the moans of time,
cutting through cracks, devouring waves,
insatiable the stranger, the body;
torrent in my audacity, dawn is already near.
Dry grass tangled in my hair,
drowning, unnoticed it rode in me,
eager, I drank from its mouth,
living a lament… slowly.
Guiltless lips, bitter and hard;
I walk towards oblivion, relieved, seeking the trail,
a fugitive, intoxicating symphonies,
I end up on the beach, becoming the sea.
The horizon edged with the orange dagger,
I keep searching for that tree, the first tree,
the one that bloomed from a flower,
the one that never saw you, the one that vanished.
