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

 

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