I
A Sun warming up inside a new
world, old lies about the migration of dust
Our hope is desperate and timid
Our hell begins with a swan song.
You who can't differentiate things yet you shine
With the pictures of yesterday, of what is today beyond time,
The desert turns into a world which depends on you saving it,
In vain the birds encircle your name.
He's killing us with a dream about perfection,
Throwing us into the Sun's column, bewitched by unheard music
With the image of a desert which cleaned the Sun from time
And white lights of senses that steal our hearts.
Praise the Sun which shines without any changes
Onto opposites, quarreled occurrences, desperate hope.
II
What shine and pain turn into
Is the exact same: it's a love which the poet is yet to speak of
Oh you vibrant flower healing gardens
From the primordial nerve you grow painfully and clearly
Allow me to see the end of your summer
The peace of your movement which drives me unpeaceful
And my immobility from before, when I had been dead
Alone inside my heart without a thunder and a flower
Where's the consolation for the things we know of
A hope with no one to hope for it, a dream
With no one to dream of it, a world without a shadow!
Is it love, which, inside a dark heart
Moves from a fire to another fire, in broad daylight
A love beyond us, inside a memory?
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