You rest by night on a white pillow
and slides away in your sleep
where I would go but I never gone.
Your night for me still remains a mystery
of unexplored ground beneath the ice
and I don't know the wind shaking your hairs
or whose the hands touching your flower.
Maybe for you the night describes as a rock
concentric circles in lakes of memories
that growth by expanding to the limit
where my face is goal of your wakening.
And if daytime you have long silences
which look like plains of fog
and others screaming like stormy seas
and others pretty full of honey and volcano
I believe that at night your silences melt
as snowflakes beneath the sun
and from them born a red flower
made of my voice and your smile.
Suggest
better translation
|