Your naked body
is the constellation of a sky
I will never see,
the fruit of the ocean and the moon
that my shipwrecked hands
will never seize,
the earth of continents
whose harvest I will never taste.
Yet I know
that were you lie,
naked,
there are not and will never be
days, or nights,
but only the caress of your skin,
eternal,
like the eye of the storm,
like the calm before dawn,
like ebb in the dead of night.
Your naked body,
fruit of snowstorm and the sun,
an island of tempests
that the magus’s veil
enshrouds.
--Next: Irbis
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