And I can speak about love, about trees on a road that leads
to others’ goals, and to the weather conditions in other countries. I offer the city
pigeons a fistful of wheat and listen to my neighbor’s noise dig under my skin
And I am capable of living to the month’s end. I give it my best
to write what convinces my heart to beat and my soul to live after me.
A gardenia can renew my life. A woman can determine my grave
And I can go to the end of my life as a couple: alone, and by myself.
I can only collude with words I haven’t yet said, to ransom my stay
on the edge of the earth, between the siege of space and the hell of falling
And with the strength of daring I will live, as it pleases my language for me to be