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In the suburbs of my soul live squeezed my poems ...
The wiry ones, or the ones that don't belong to me
the indestructible ones in the following
the metaphors that rest tirelessly in the portal of my memories staring at me
of my memories staring at me with sadness.
Then I saw you as the occupant
in the midst of this torment which has come to me late; my love
has resolved itself according to your indications, or also as a temptation that will not be extinguished
because you have come to me too late, and because my heart does not belong to you
does not belong to you, but nevertheless
you can always conquer it... I am sorry that my heart
is fainting calling you as if it were a wounded birdie
in my throat and lost
forever in a winter morning. You are not mine,
but only your name still sounds
in this winter that yesterday came fainting
before this autumn burning with springs
in your hands
just ten minutes away from your warmth... You tell me I'm a hypocrite
because in the history that spreads
my poems live tightly pressed against your skin
and I'll tell you what no, I lack the ability
to caress you from afar, and I can not
to reach that hidden little valley
and abandoned for centuries