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My inker is not enough,
your loneliness is not enough,
the ingenious beseeches are not enough,
the hair cast over the shoulders is not enough,
your head rolled on the memory’s steps
is not enough,
my shadow hung by your body
like by a lighting gondola is not enough
the fondness is not enough,
the release is not enough
to amount
there.
(Neither our souls enchained
like two leaves in the wind)
This is a resignation reason:
no philosopher head and
no angel nestling in missiles
can cut the sky’s tarpaulin.
So this is marvelous how
the child’s ball climbs there
and never comes back
from the God’s lap.
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