The new potatoes
The new potatoes
have arrived in the market,
the cauliflowers too.
For now,
I have no interest
in any of that.
Crossing through
forests and groves
of flesh and blood,
without an oar,
I am moving forward
towards
a pink-coloured flood,
where
I will be able
to cry a little.
There,
ever-flowing
through a forest of reeds,
I will be able
to become
a deer in pajamas.
But no,
it is not that
I am going somewhere to die.
Death
is no one of mine.
Between
truth and falsehood
I am now swinging.
The morning rooster
watches in astonishment
as I carry
in my right hand
the voice of a boy,
and
in my left,
the voice of a girl.
I,
now bearded and moustached,
am also there,
beside the swift-flowing
river of melancholy,
though
in the courtyard there
is no
orange tree.
And yet,
tearing myself away
from my own pain,
I want
to embrace
the masculine scent
of an orange's body.
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