How could I escape you? – you whose breath is to my skin what water is to life.
The fires of hell
into your cup I’ll pour,
with the waters of heaven
wash your naked soul.
With the thirst of a desert that hasn’t seen a drop of rain in a hundred years I ache for you.
Between your soul and mine
poetry, in an eternal migration,
ripples the whole sky.
I am a poet whose feather drinks from his own blood, goes on scribbling, but all it manages to paint is your face in the sky.