3681 This afternoon is in y throat

This afternoon goes thru me
The desire to spread
The spores
Of this deep feeling
Among your veins.

This afternoon I feverishly desire
That my passion blooms in you,
And suddenly be favorable
The conditions of the wind
To paint the days
Of another color,
That the vehement
Yearning leafy tree
Cover with their branches
Your garden.

If this afternoon I could
Set up a mountain
Of fondness
In front of your anxieties
And to what people may say.
Probably for it
I need
A telluric movement
Or dermal tremor
Of stellar magnitude,
To remove the damned
Philistine columns
As if I were the same
As a biblical Samson.

But this afternoon when opening my mouth
I’m just able to gobble
The puff of the ether
That it comes from the east,
Where you remain
Without me.

Where will be the grip
In this curved universe.
This afternoon is not
Dagger hilt
But scimitar’s edge
To the one I should hang myself
Without further ado.

This afternoon
It is in my throat.

Here they pass
At each hour
Hordes of desire
An uncontainable ocean,
Delirious foam that overflows
My chest opposed to the flint.

I could go from sea to sea
From port to port
From door to door
Until find the secret one
That implores you at night
And invokes you day by day,
Of this way, I will be leaved
By the bitter days
And the grizzly fog,
The veil of dirges
With its chiaroscuro light.
To remove the obstruction
Of my best dreams
And all the subtle
But disquiet things
That sinks me in the silt
Of despair.
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