In my black or orange voice, love blossoms

In my black or orange voice, love blossoms, Like in a film, among giraffes, in a world of dreams and thrills, The death of giraffes becomes tender in the tenderness of feeling, Women-tenors sing an eternal melody, knowing its secret. The others, lost in the rhythm of meanings and shapes, find their way, Making love in convulsions among giraffes, like dancers at dusk, In the eyes of a serious child, the blue of immortality is reflected, In craters, the wind flutters their ribbons, and regrets are silent. We sleep on the ground, and the grass grows, covering our shadow, Roosters sing in the crowd, and our bracelets shine, At the pit stop, ecstatic hours are offered to us, While evening burns fires near the ruins of our memories. Lovers teach us the vulgar language of our enamored hearts, In their fluid rotation, they spoke exciting and unleashed words, On their land, we lived, we felt, we were lost in the breeze of love, The dog tries to adapt, and the lamb wanders the streets, confused. Runners with the knives of time describe distant times, In alphabets without letters, the confusion of their descriptions entices us, We stand with our soles over the oils of times, blind and frenetic, We list the wonders of the century, from A to Z, in a poetic disorder. An impatient messenger, my wet boat, searching for destinations, An angry bird on the last tree, a wild relic in the sad landscape, Under the pitch of the sun, we rest, seeking ameliorated feelings, The shadows have remained behind us, beautiful shadows on shoreless water. Pathetic words, slightly ajar, scratching on the shadows of the past, Connections and indecency, in reconstructed plates, honor and integrity, With love, we promise to find each other, in this dance of existence, And in our pocket we keep memories, a key, and a corner of curtain.