i breathe the nostalgia
I breathe the nostalgia
really of those cain lips
on my athenaic bosoms
when no more impregnable
I was free to love.
and now, in this foreign orchard
among white wither tulips
contemplate on this last drop
sliding down my womb
exposed, after the storm.
with my thinking I push it lower
Feminine herself in her trembling and hesitating.
the voice of that man so adult and deep
that celebrated my name
again and again and again
now for other bosoms, for other loins.
my cold feet
white in this moonless night
facing south, there force me to stop.
that last icy drop
yet falling turning east
as if to call him. she then stops
to await her sister, brackish,
not collected by my lips.
and I see the profile of that man
reflexed in the two sisters
no more separated, but smelted
the saltiness of one lost in the other.
appears smiling, as in times of yore.
again, and again and again
while the omphalos howled his name