From your side of the telephone,
Your words came
Like arrows with my name,
Launched towards
The vulnerable target of my chest,
Undeclared missiles
Towards the sensitive point
Of my misty reason.
They were bullets guided
By remote control,
Searching for me
Like an objective in the landscape,
Wandering chameleon pupil,
Darts teleguided
Towards the tender center,
Right to the sprout
Of the little buds of hope
That greened my inner self.
Without armistice, without my truce,
You self-renewed the permissions
For the use of your weapons of jealousy
And you shot me at point-blank range,
Without giving me the option of grace
Or the liberation of your empire.
And I, who millennia ago
Was already soft inside,
With my heart boiling
And my desire melted
Into flowers of fire,
Surrendered myself
Completely to your mystery.
No hay comentarios.:
Publicar un comentario